Here is the Place Where I Love You
by Meadowlark27
Summary: "I lie there with my knees tucked up into my chest, arms curled around myself as if to hold the hundreds of shattered fragments that constitute as my body together. But in this moment, I realize this action is unnecessary. He is twined around me like a ribbon, keeping every shard of my splintered soul in place. He holds me together." Canon, Post-Mockingjay. Everlark.
1. The Primrose Bushes

_Disclaimer: The credit for the characters and setting and all of those wonderful elements is due Suzanne Collins, not me! I own absolutely nothing._

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I sit out on the front porch. My elbows rest on my knees, cheeks against my palms. Above me, the grey sky stretches like a dome as if it bears the intention of containment.

My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am from District 12. I've lost nearly everything and everyone in the revolution that has swept through Panem. My sister is dead. My mother and the man who used to be my closest friend are miles away. I'm alone. I'm so, so alone.

I turn my head slightly, my eyes falling on the bushes of primroses that line the side of my house. A lump forms in my throat, and I gulp it down with much struggle. Primrose._ Prim._ That was my sister's name.

My eyes flicker up, skimming the milky-grey void overhead that puffs delicate breezes of cool air through the district. It's early morning but not visibly so. My throat is still dry from a long night without sleep. Only in increments of an hour or so could I manage to doze off, only to be awakened by my own screams.

I thought that at least, by now, the nightmares would get better.

Crisp, dry leaves swirl by my feet and the wind moans slightly as it passes through Victor's Village. The Victor's Village, despite the nobility in the name, holds the least bit of pride. Empty mansions line the street; only three are occupied. One by me. Another, by Haymitch, the hopeless drunk who I haven't seen in days, as he is most likely shut up in a room, drowning himself in a bottle of scotch per usual. The third house holds a third victor.

Peeta Mellark.

It was Peeta who planted the few primrose bushes for me in memory of my sister. In good faith, evidently. But then again, every deed that Peeta carries out is unquestionably in good faith. Every motion of his hand, every smile, every reassuring touch.

But Peeta hasn't touched me in weeks—the only contact rising from when he grabbed my arm to restrain me from killing myself after shooting Coin. Maybe I want his touch, with warm skin brushing against mine. A sincere grin that reaches even his recently hollowed blue eyes. I haven't seen a genuine smile from Peeta in what feels like lifetimes, but that is an ache that began at my own hands. It was _my_ fault that he was taken by the Capitol. It was my fault that he was hijacked. It was my fault that he was terrorized and will probably never overcome the hallucinations that rock him from day to day, just as I will never overcome the nightmares.

It's my fault that things will never be the same between us. The boy with the bread that used to break through my walls has built up a fortress of his own. But I can't break his walls down now, and I'm afraid he'll never let me in.

A bird passes overhead, its song ringing through the nearly vacant road. A mockingjay.

In my throat, I feel a delicate hum stir, placing pressure behind my teeth. As if it wants to draw a song from my lips. But I swallow whatever tune threatens to rise.

I feel my muscles tense in the chill of the morning as I debate whether or not to go inside when I see one of my only companions making her way to my porch. Greasy Sae. One of the few who survived in District 12 since the war. Despite her ragged exterior, her welcoming smile instantly ignites a flicker of gratification within my chest.

"Good morning, Katniss," she greets warmly.

I just grin half-heartedly, unable to muster anything more genuine. I hope she knows that my response is substantially more emotive than what I've been donning for the past few weeks.

"Let's get you inside," she continues without much hesitation. "You look a little cold, dear. How about some breakfast?"

If it wasn't for Sae's cooking, I would be all but an absolute skeleton. Regardless of having over a decade of experience with single-handedly providing for my family, I can hardly support myself. Maybe it's because I can't aggregate the energy to hunt like I used to. Or even go to the market, for the matter.

She helps me up, gathering my shoulders in her arms. After we're inside, she sits me down at the empty table and begins her work in the kitchen. I sit, staring forward at all of the empty chairs. This house was made for company, of which I have none. Maybe on a good day, Haymitch could stop by. I elect to not consider the possibility of Peeta's attendance. Thinking about Peeta gives me a headache.

It doesn't take long for the trail of Sae's cooking to waft from the kitchen, lacing around me in relaxing ribbons of scent. I feel my muscles relax.

"How're you feeling today?" Her voice dangles from the kitchen.

I know that I can't wriggle my way out of this one with a bodily response. My voice, which is rough and jagged as it fights through my idle throat, finally pushes through for the first time this morning.

"A little better." I'm unsure of whether or not this is the truth.

"That's a development."

I feel a sigh ripple through my lungs, and then my breath catch in hesitation. Should I tell her?

She doesn't say anything, as if she's waiting for some sort of justification.

I close my eyes.

"Peeta's back."

I'm surprised to hear my lips form around his name. I haven't spoken it in ages, too afraid to not do it justice.

After a few moments of silence, Sae's face appears in the threshold. To my surprise, a smile is plastered over her lips. Nevertheless, sympathy has made its way to her eyes.

Her timbre is soft. "Isn't that nice." It sounds more like a question to me, as if she wants my confirmation.

"Nice" isn't exactly the word that comes to mind. The color of the word is far too pleasant. If anything, I'm terrified by his presence. I'm unsure of how to handle the situation, as I know that no amount of apologies or explanations could mend whatever gash I've torn in our friendship. Even if he does still remember some things, like those nights that we spent on the train where he held me so tightly to keep me from crumbling. He may not hate me anymore, but he deserves to resent me.

Another sigh stirs in my chest.

"He planted some… _bushes_. Along the side of my house." I feel the all-too-familiar lump rising in my throat again. I wait for a moment. "Primrose bushes."

I watch as her eyes, which had been welling with enthusiasm as I started to speak of him, instantaneously flush of all brightness. But her smile does not disappear.

"That was certainly thoughtful of him," she croons sadly.

I gulp. My eyes feel wet. "Certainly."

A part of me almost resents him for the gesture. Things would be immensely easier if he let me go. Then I could let him go. Maybe this insuppressible feeling of loneliness would go away.

Sae must've gone back to tending to the breakfast because she's disappeared from the doorway, and suddenly, I'm alone to my own thoughts. I close my eyes and try not to think, picturing a black void in my mind. But clearing thoughts is a lot more difficult in practice than in theory.

Out of the blue, a light rapping echoes from the front door, as if to save me from suffocating in my head. My eyelids shoot open. Who could it be? Haymitch? Maybe he's heard the news that I have a personal chef for breakfast and he wants in on the deal as well.

I remain still for a few moments, half-expecting Sae to answer the door. But then I remember she's not my butler. She's my guest who's already providing a favor.

I sluggishly push myself from the chair, unenthusiastically treading to the door. My entire body feels heavy this morning even though my skin is nearly translucent from the lack of muscle and bone.

My hands twists at the knob. The door pulls open.

I feel a pocket of air immediately swell in my lungs, but I can't seem to find a way to exhale. My entire body tenses.

"Hey, Katniss."

Before me stands the boy with the bread, and staying true to his name, he holds a wrapped-up loaf in his hands.

He seems to predict my silence and immediately continues, awkwardly holding out the bundle in his hands. His eyes are focused on the floor, mine on the bread. "I thought I'd… um… I thought I'd bring you some bread. I had some extra. I've—I've been baking again." Peeta, who had always been so unwaveringly charismatic with his natural flow in conversation, surprises me with his stammering. Maybe he's just as uncomfortable as I am.

I tentatively accept the token. Our fingers very marginally brush as he passes the bread from his hand to mine. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand.

When my focus pins on his face, our eyes lock for just a moment. It's been what feels like ages since I got to fully explore those blue irises of his, tender and promising. Although they seem not to bear the same depth as before, the slight bit of affection is unmistakable. I feel my cheeks flush with heat.

"Thank you," I murmur vacantly, my eyebrows knitting together. And then all at once, as if the same thought washes over the both of us, our gazes dart away.

He stands there for a brief moment and then begins to step away. I can sense the imminent goodbye, and before my mind catches up with my mouth, I hear myself ask, "Would you like to stay for breakfast?"

Once again, my gaze finds his face. I can see a delicate smile work its way onto his lips. Still, the hesitation in his footfall is undeniable, but he steps forward, crossing the threshold into my home for the first time in what feels like forever.

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_Thanks for the read! This first chapter's fairly short—I just wanted to give you all a little sample of how I do things befo__re I completely plunge into the story. Please leave a review if you can, it would be much appreciated! Tell me if I need to add more for next time, or cut some fluff (or if you want to call me a bonehead, do your thing, I have thick skin!). Until next time. :)_


	2. Home

_To those of you who took the time to give me a review for the first chapter, thank you so much! I appreciate the feedback and am also grateful for your kind replies. Without further ado, enjoy!_

_Disclaimer: I do not own anything._

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I expect for breakfast with Sae and Peeta to carry a hollowed silence as I sit down unaccompanied at the head of the dining room table. Peeta has disappeared into the kitchen with the loaf of bread that he'd retrieved from me. Immediately, a joyous cry echoes from the kitchen. Sae must be delighted to have Peeta back.

As she finishes the preparation, soft murmurs bounce back between the two of them. I don't even attempt to eavesdrop. Instead, I remain still, my fingers mindlessly toying with the end of my braid. His presence seems unreal, almost impossible. Not in a million years would I have expected his company again, not in my own home, at least. I'd taken the planting of the primrose bushes to be nothing more than the kind gesture that it was—I'd just assumed it was more of a token of peace, or armistice. Not a token of compassion of any sort.

But, nevertheless, the boy emerges into my dining room in front of Sae, bearing a plate with precisely sliced bread and a tub of butter. He slides it in the center of the table before helping her distribute the breakfast. Placing a bowl of steaming porridge in front of me and a second one for him at the placemat to my left, it's just now beginning to settle in my bones that he is here. Peeta Mellark is back.

Although she doesn't eat with us—she never does—Sae seats herself to my right as Peeta and I eat. I do take in a bite or so every minute, but the majority of the meal is spent with me impassively pushing around my porridge with the back of my spoon while Peeta ingests his. I can't help but feel relieved that he does; the poor boy looks as if he hasn't had anything to eat in weeks. His characteristically full frame has thinned, the skin of his face stretched tightly over his jaw. He looks sick if not totally starved.

For the past few weeks, Sae only sticks around to tidy up a bit before she leaves to tend to her granddaughter. But today she sits with us for a half hour. Just her presence alone dissipates at least some of the tension that fogs the room.

"How long have you been back, Peeta?"

He swallows quickly to respond. "I came back last night. The doctor finally said I could come home."

_Home_. How funny. District Twelve seems like the farthest thing from home as of now, especially for him. His family is gone. Half of the people that used to mean anything to him—to _us_—are dead. All of his remaining friends are either still in the Capitol or have left to make a life for themselves elsewhere. There's nothing for him here but a constantly drunk companion and a girl who is responsible for the havoc.

Even though my gaze is fixed intently on my bowl, I can feel him look to me.

"Katniss, are you okay?"

I just nod minutely.

Before he can pry even further, Sae asks him another question and he gently responds to her, and the two of them converse for God knows how long. She questions him with what he's going to do here and each of his replies are just as patient as the last. I don't speak up, my voice lost somewhere in the pit of my chest. And yet, even though I'm sure it's indiscernible, I'm relieved that I'm not alone. Despite being completely detached from the conversation, the sound of voices wrapping around my skin is just as comforting as anything at the moment. We stay like this for a while, and then all at once, the world begins to move around me again. Sae stands, clearing the table; Peeta helps her. I feel his gaze falling on me periodically as the two of them keep busy, but I don't return it. I don't know why.

I hear Peeta's clear voice resonate from the kitchen.

"She's not really doing well, is she?" But it's not a question.

Sae's response is disheartened. "She hasn't been eating much since she came back. I'm worried about the poor girl. But she'll be alright; she's strong. She always recovers."

A brief hiatus in speech is filled with the clinking of dishes, running water. I wonder if they realize that I could hear them—they probably think I'm so lost in the corners of my own mind that anything in reality is indiscernible.

Peeta says something again, but against the backdrop of running water and intermittent clanks of glassware, it's difficult to decipher.

A few minutes pass before the two of them finish. Sae is the first to exit the kitchen, delicately touching my shoulder and wishing me goodbye before she leaves. I stand up automatically as Peeta follows suit, passing me by on his way to the door. I trail him aloofly. He doesn't say anything at first; gathers his coat, buttons it up, leads me after I pull the door open for him. I step just far enough through the threshold to line with the steps, sitting down with my knees tucked up in my chest. Again, the chill in the air sweeps around me as he steps down from the porch. I watch, calculating the distance as it stretches between us.

But then he pauses.

I observe him carefully as he turns around, and even though he's done so well this far maintaining his composure, the emotion behind his expression is clear and vibrant. I see the pain striped across his strong features, his blue eyes ringing with ache.

"I'm sorry, Katniss. I shouldn't have come."

"Why do you say that?" My voice is not swayed with emotion like I expect as it remains particularly impartial. I fold my arms over my chest, my gaze falling to the hardened, unforgiving earth below his feet.

Breath expels from his lungs as fog in the cool morning air; the ache is patent in his sigh as well. He looks up at the sky, stepping forward.

"You don't want me here."

"I invited you inside, didn't I?" My tone is much more hostile than intended.

A mockingjay from nearby sings its short song, and I close my eyes, trying to hold onto my sanity for just this brief moment.

When my eyelids flutter back open, he's closer to me now, standing above me. His gaze bares down forcefully on mine, but delicately all the same.

"I'm hurting you, aren't I? Being back? Being… here?"

My jaw hardens as I look to the side, frost pinching at my cheeks. "Peeta, I'm hurt, but it is in no way at your fault." I feel that lump in my throat rising once again, but I swallow it back down with as much force as I can muster. "I'm here, living in these absolutely empty remains of what used to be my home. My sister is dead at the hand of someone I used to trust with my own life. My mother wants nothing to do with me. I can't sleep, I have nightmares every time I close my eyes, and—" No. I can't do this. I can't do this here. My face falls in my hands.

I feel Peeta sitting down at my side, a slight warmth radiating from his body. For just a brief second I crave his grasp, and then I remember that things aren't the same anymore. I shouldn't want that.

"And what?" he begs for continuance.

I hesitate to tell him. As of yet, I've already let too many words slip recklessly from my mouth. I didn't want him to know I was hurting—after all, if anyone deserves to be hurt, it's him. Yet I'm the one buckling.

I'm aware that once I say it, there's no way that I can take it back. But as I sit here, the cold suffocating me almost as quickly as my own regret, the bond between Peeta and I that used to be stronger than my own will is absolutely demolished. Things are _not_ the same. They will never be the same. Saying the words that dance behind my frozen lips can't hurt me—I've got nothing to lose.

I've lost everything already.

I've lost him.

And that's what I hunger for him to know.

"I'm hurt, Peeta, and it's not because of you. It's because I've lost you. I know that you used to love me, and that you wanted it to be real between us, and I realized just a moment too late that I wanted that too. But I've broken you. It's because of me that you were taken by the Capitol, that you were tortured. And there's nothing I can do but sit here and hate myself for losing the one last person who means anything to me."

He sits there in silence, listening to me. I can sense his entire body tensing, and he inhales sharply at one point. But I don't suppose he is angry. At least, I pray that he isn't.

"Katniss…"

He can't finish. I've left him at a loss for words, and in return I'm left with a nauseating void in my chest, my stomach dropping, my face flushing. My eyes are moist and I squeeze them shut so tightly that my lids begin to throb.

"Peeta, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry that I couldn't fix you." My voice is muffled in my hands. "I know that you want things to be good between us again, because you planted those bushes for me. You're so kind, and you want to fix things just as much as I do. But it can't happen. We're not the same. Half your memories of us are gone. You only care about me because of what you've been told and the few memories that you have left. But that's not enough. I can't magically make seventeen years of growing to know and need each other reappear. They're gone."

Once the lines expel from my strained throat, I suddenly feel my chest lift and every restraint crumble around me. I finally let myself cry in front of Peeta even though I've been determined to not let him see me like this for so long. I've never said so much before, at least not that I can remember. I've never been good at articulating my feelings. But once they made their way out from my tightly clenched teeth, there was no confining them. I curl up, exerting all of my remaining strength just to keep myself held together in front of the boy with the bread.

As my muscles tremble, I feel a reassuring hand press delicately on my back. Even though I haven't felt his touch in so long, a wave of both nostalgia and longing for what's just out of my reach hits me. His palm moves in slow, comforting circles up and down my spine.

"Katniss?"

I cough in acknowledgement.

"I'm still Peeta Mellark. Real or not real?"

The sound of the familiar four-word phrase instantly sends a shiver from my head all the way down my system, to the tips of my fingers and my toes. My breathing calms just a bit at the sentence that I used to use so many times on him to try and elicit memories as well as truth. _Real or not real_. Never had I found so much solace in that phrase.

"Real," I respond quietly, shaking.

"I'm here, right now. Real or not real?"

Not once had I thought that I would be the one to need comforting—I'd always predicted that I'd be on the other side of these attempts.

A little louder this time, my voice pushes through my lips. "Real."

"I may not remember everything, but I do remember throwing you the bread. I remember you singing. I remember your red dress. I remember those nights on the train. Don't tell me that means nothing. Katniss Everdeen, you are not alone."

This time, his statement is not followed by a "real or not real?" Instead, it holds strong in the cool air, drawing me to lift my head. My eyes meet his, and it is then that I know that he does not need my confirmation of its legitimacy because its legitimacy is not in question.

As we sit on the porch together, a marginally comfortable silence resting on our shoulders, I begin to wonder why I had previously thought otherwise.

My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am from District 12. And I am not alone.

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_Thanks for the read! Please drop in and leave a review if you can, and I promise it will be much appreciated! Have a wonderful rest of the day. :)_


	3. Patience

_I wanted to express once again how thankful I am for the reviews/favorites/follows. You guys are pretty fantastic. :) My goal for these first few chapters is to illustrate a sort of push-pull between Katniss and Peeta as they grow back together but struggle to do so. If you can, let me know how I'm doing on that!_

_Disclaimer: I don't own anything in this story! All fundamentals can be accredited to Suzanne Collins._

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As the day stretches longer, the clouds begin to dissipate, the sun rising clear to the peak of the sky. The chalky grey of the morning gradually shifts into a forgiving blue, endless and clear. I find myself pacing down the dirt path that leads straight to the market. It's my first time officially out since my return to Twelve.

Since the war and the consequent destruction of the district, Twelve has had to rebuild from the ground up. Remarkably, a new comfortable wealth has found its place here—certainly, Twelve is not any richer than the surrounding districts, but sturdy foundations have replaced crumbling, ramshackle lots. Shops line the center road, newly painted with glass windows. What used to be the hob is now a healthy market that can boast lively consumers.

Though I learn to take this with a grain of salt. Twelve may be growing slightly, but what used to be a district full of neighbors and friends is now supporting more strangers than acquaintances. As I pass through the center street, taking in each of the new shops that line the road, most of the faces around me are unfamiliar. By the way they all stare at me, however, I know that I'm no stranger to them. I'm Katniss Everdeen, the girl on fire. The revolutionary. The borderline lunatic who shot the president. Will I still merit the same respect, or will I permanently be labeled as unstable and psychopathic?

The only thing I can do is wait to see how it all plays out. For now, patience will be my practice.

Unfortunately, patience has proven to be an enemy characteristic of mine. Prim was patient. Peeta was patient, and theoretically still is. But not the girl on fire.

I pass a familiar face, and then another. An older woman that used to buy game from me. A girl that was friends with Prim. My throat thickens at the thought but I still manage to force a pathetic grin her way.

I'm slightly unsure of what I'm doing out here, out in public. But my feet have a mind of their own and they know where they're taking me before I do. It isn't long before I realize that I'm headed toward the fence, toward the section under which I've always crawled to hunt as well as be alone. Or to be with Gale.

Gale. I wonder how he's doing. I try not to think of him very often in fear that maybe some distant feeling of yearning will surface, but as of yet I've felt nothing but dilute liberation. So far, so good.

The signs that read _high voltage_ have been removed from the wiring of the fence. Now that the barrier is intact only to keep predators out, as opposed to contain the citizens, I guess the threat of escape has lost its severity.

Once I'm on the other side of the fence, I immediately feel the accumulating tension from the day roll off of me in waves. Maybe it's because I'm not cooped up in a house like I have been for weeks, or maybe it's because I feel a timeless sense of freedom that is hardly applicable anymore but still resonates just as strong. This time, when a mockingjay sounds, I very peacefully hum its song back.

I have not brought my bow, or my arrows, for the matter. I'm aware that I'm not emotionally equipped to hunt. I know that the feel of a bow in my hand, the flex of my muscle, the pull of the string and the release will propel me into paramount anxiety. What used to be a way of hunting grew to hold a much more severe consequence in the war. I cannot kill with that bow again, at least not for a long, long time to come.

In the meantime, I settle underneath a grand oak, the curvature of its bark aligning comfortably with my back. I sit on a crisp bed of leaves, my fingers tracing the ground below. My skin adores the feeling of earth against it. Maybe my worsening depression could be partially attributed to my lack of contact with the outside world.

My muscles relax as I lean against the base of the tree. If any place was worthy enough to be called my home, this would be it. These woods. These were my woods.

For the next few days, I visit the same tree every passing afternoon. I find that I don't need to keep busy; sometimes, I'll doze off for a few moments. Otherwise, I sit relatively still, allowing myself to get lost in my own mind. But out here, my mind is less of a frightening maze. The nightmares don't seem to reduce in frequency overnight, but during the day, when I'm here, I find that my thoughts stray less and less towards the things I'd like to forget. Even if it's just for an hour, having the ability to release the stress from the remainder of the day is more than needed.

As the sun begins to lose its altitude, plummeting back towards the horizon for a night of sleep, I know it's time to return. The earth around me begins to take on a golden glow just before the evening and I say goodbye to my woods and my moment of absolute tranquility.

However, each night I'm greeted by not only Greasy Sae and a very grouchy Buttercup that makes her daily appearances before wandering off in solitude. I'm greeted now by Peeta as well. He is always welcome for dinner, and every evening, without fail, I come through my front door to be greeted by a heartening scent of stew and a genuine smile from the boy with the bread. He and I eat as Sae stays around to clean up. Most evenings she stays to light a fire for me, and after she wishes me well for the night, I'm left alone with Peeta by the time we finish our meal.

The first night that Sae departs prematurely, the awkwardness in the room is nearly palpable. But we make do. He always does the dishes, and that night I help. Our conversation carries casually without depth or without serious intent, but nevertheless, I begin to feel more comfortable in his presence.

He never stays for long. It's unclear as to whether it's because he doesn't realize his welcome is extended or because he truly wants to be home. I've never verbally requested for him to stick around a while longer, partially because I'm unsure of what it would entail. The few moments he stays with me as we sit by the fire on otherwise cool nights are satisfactory as they are.

We don't say much when he stays. Our typical routine brings an unrushed dinner, a brief moment to clean the dishes, and then a half hour or so sitting on the wooden flat before the hearth. I tuck my knees into my chest, extending bare toes to be warmed. Peeta usually lays back, hands behind his head. He doesn't see how often I look to him, watching the way the light from the orange flame dances all over his body. The bright tongues of fire reflect antagonistically in his blue irises, sporting both fire and ice. Whenever he looks to me, I awkwardly shift my gaze back to the fireplace, getting lost in the way the flames lick the air above them. Sometimes I can feel his smile on me when I do that. The absence of words is filled with the crackle of the fire and with the muted howl of the wind from outside my windows, and in a way, the silence is inherently comfortable. We don't need to speak.

I find that the moments we share where we don't converse can prove to be the most peaceful. Just being in his company is soothing enough. When he speaks, his words are careful, calculated, and never out of place. His tone is always patient and even. My replies are typically much more disjointed, but it doesn't faze him. He'll frequently sport a smile, or on his better days, release a gentle chuckle.

But just like me, Peeta does not always have good days. His attendance at breakfast is considerably spotty unlike at dinner; he will never explain why, but I know that every morning he wakes up from nightmares like mine. Every dawn is a battle between his hallucinations and his grasp of reality, and too often, his hallucinations win. He rarely talks about it. He told me one evening by the fire that his delusions have not eased, and when they take over, he doesn't want to be near me. But he has spoken very few words of it otherwise.

I'm with him one day when they occur. It's just after breakfast, and Sae has left early to go look after her granddaughter. The water is running in the kitchen and I hear Peeta scrubbing a bowl as I wipe off the dining room table. Outside, the sky is overcast, releasing pellets of rain down on the earth below. The rhythmic pattering on the windowpane is half-monotonous yet half-soothing, and I'm calm for the moment. And then I hear the clatter of metal as it clamors against the floor, echoing from the kitchen. I start, then take the few steps that carry me into the threshold between the dining room and the kitchen. It only takes a few moments for me to grasp what's happening.

Peeta stands with his back towards me, hands clasping the ends of the counter with a dripping mixing bowl lying upside-down at his feet. My mouth opens and the first sound of his name bursts from my lips, but instantaneously I hold myself back as I take in his stance. He's leaning forward slightly, fingers uncomfortably clutching the surface by the sink as if it's the only thing anchoring him in reality. His knuckles are so sharp and tight that they bear a white hue and the muscles of his shoulders and arms are so rigid that they protrude angularly and cause him to tremble ever-so-slightly.

I know what's happening to him. He's having a hallucination. It renders me absolutely terrified, leaving me just as frozen in place as he. I haven't been around him during one of these episode in ages. I don't know if he's even at that stage where he can consciously differentiate between reality and imagination. If he's not, any wrong step on my behalf could cause him to act out against me. Contrary to how I usually feel around Peeta, I feel hopelessly endangered. My heart pulses violently inside my chest. It's hard to breathe.

After what could be years, his body begins to relax. I watch his shoulders rise and fall with deep breaths. Eventually, he reaches down to grab the bowl off the floor. Up until this point, I don't know if he's realized that I'm standing behind him. But then, after setting the bowl overly cautiously in the sink, I hear him call my name as if he'd registered that I was there all along.

"Yes?" I pipe back through shallow breaths.

"Have you been here this whole time?"

I repeat my last response. His shoulders fall, and he turns to me. His cheeks are impossibly pale, his entire face drained of color. Even his characteristically bright eyes have lost all vivacity.

He doesn't speak to me, even though I can tell he's searching for the right words to say. He swallows, inhales as if to articulate something, but nothing comes out.

I have nothing to say, either. I don't know what to tell him. I recognize that I should want to comfort him, and I do in a sense. At the same time, however, I am irrevocably terrified of him. I haven't seen him so traumatized since the actual war. He's _not_ better. Although the Peeta that I've been continually growing fonder of stands before me now, I'm unable to overlook the glimpse of something that was not even human from moments before.

We watch each other with tantamount attentiveness. I feel as if we're miles and miles apart.

At dinner that night, he conducts himself as if the morning episode had gone unseen, but I can still see it in his sunken eyes that he knows I haven't forgotten. And I truly can't forget. I close my eyes and I see the swollen muscles, the white knuckles, the trembling shoulders. We eat in silence. We wash the dishes in silence. We settle by the fire the Sae has made in silence.

When he unexpectedly speaks for the first time that evening, I start with surprise.

"What are you thinking?" he asks me.

By the way that he's staring at me, I'm doubtless that he knows _exactly_ what I'm thinking. My knees, which are tucked up into my chest like a young child, serve as a resting place for my chin. My eyes pin themselves on the hearth.

"I don't know, Peeta." That's a lie. A million thoughts are buzzing through my head with abandon; it's impossible for me to attempt to summarize them, but even if I could, I wouldn't want to.

"I scared you," he blurts almost immediately.

I shrug with the assumption that he'll discern that I am, in fact, resolute. "I've seen worse." Which may be true, but that doesn't make the situation in place any lighter.

He presses his fingers against his temples, rubbing them. The frustration in his movements radiates from his skin.

We don't speak for the remainder of the evening.

The next morning, Peeta is absent at breakfast. Sae doesn't think twice about it, but I'm afraid it's because of my stoicism from the previous night. I scarcely have an appetite for breakfast, each bite feeling like a struggle of its own.

Once I'm alone, instead of wandering into the market as usual, I alter my route to see the third victor that I have yet to visit.

I knock on the door twice, waiting for several long moments for a response before some sense comes to me. There's no way that Haymitch is conscious enough to respond to a dainty rapping on the door.

So I pound. My fists crash against the wood of the door four, five, then six times. But after the seventh, the sides of my hands are throbbing and I'm even more agitated than before.

So I try the doorknob. To my luck, it swings open, only to greet me with an utterly revolting stench of alcohol and other substances I don't want to consider. I slowly make my way down the front hall, peering into the rooms as I pass. Every light in the place is off, the only glow streaming through half-closed shutters, glimmering off broken bottles and glasses that line the surfaces of his house in the gloom.

"Haymitch, you have a pretty damn big problem," I holler into the darkness.

To my surprise, an unenthusiastic grunt comes from my left. My gaze flickers in that direction to spot the dim silhouette of an essentially unconscious man lying crookedly in an armchair.

I stalk up to him and resort to the only means I know possible to wake him; I find a partially-filled bottle and dump it on his face. It splatters all over his forehead, soaking his hair as it drips down his features. He pulls into consciousness with a start and starts yelling profanities my way.

"Good morning." I can only imagine how tepid I sound.

"It would've been a good morning had you let me sleep through it." His hands move to his face as he attempts to wipe the booze off of his forehead. "And you had to waste some perfectly good liquor while you were at it."

"It's nice to see you, too."

He grunts exasperatedly, straightening up just marginally. My eyes are beginning to adjust to the dark. Before he can interject any unappreciated opinion, I blurt what I came here to say, not preparing to idle away a precious second.

"Haymitch, I need your help." Rarely do I come to him for a favor, so I'm praying that he'll cut the mockery and just assist me. But maybe that's expecting too much.

He runs his fingers through his damp hair, gritting his teeth. "Anything you want, sweetheart."

Already, the sarcasm that is so distinctive of him manages to outshine his already blooming personality.

I hope this will settle in his core. "It's about Peeta."

"I still don't think you deserve him," he comments automatically, repeating the same phrase he's been reiterating for a year. When he sees how unmoved I am by his dragging cynicism, he sighs. "Having boy problems again?"

As always. "More or less."

"He's back, isn't he? I saw him once when I was feeding my geese." Why anyone decided to allow Haymitch to foster a flock of geese is beyond me. The man can hardly take care of himself, let alone another dozen or so creatures. I see them waddling around his backyard from time to time, wondering why they've stayed so long. Not to mention that they have a very grumpy cat chasing after them. I assume that a considerable fragment of the time that Buttercup spends away from my house is spent stalking the poor flock.

"I was with Peeta when he had… well, when he had one of his _episodes_." My lips exaggerate the last word, drawing it out more grossly than necessary. Nonetheless, my tone is not as passive-aggressive as it typically is when directed toward Haymitch. Even from my perspective, the plea is clear-cut.

"A hallucination?"

I nod. Even through the dark, I'm sure his dilated eyes can pick up on the movement.

Haymitch sighs, rubbing a temple. "I get it, the situation's not ideal. Let me guess how it all played out: he had a hallucination, you felt threatened, so on and so forth. Am I correct?"

I purse my lips. He takes my silence as an invitation to continue.

"Look, Katniss. I know that he probably scared you, but if you want him to get any better you're going to have to dish out some of the attention that you love so damn much. You can't freeze him out every time that he struggles. That poor boy stuck with you night after night when you were having your bad dreams too, sweetheart. It's a two-way street."

"That's different, Haymitch. In case you don't remember, I've never tried to strangle Peeta before."

After the words slip from my mouth, I instantly regret not only the acidity of my tone but the actual phrasing itself.

Haymitch's jaw opens, his brow furrowing. "That's not fair."

I fold my arms stubbornly. But he's right. I shouldn't have said that. The Peeta that wanted me dead back then was nothing like the Peeta that lives next door to me today.

"Don't you see how much the poor boy has changed since he came back? How _hard_ he's trying? No, he's not a pansy anymore that will let you bulldoze right over him because he's absolutely enamored with you. But he still cares about you. He's got enough conscience in him to know not to hurt you."

"But during one of his hallucinations—"

"Do you think he would've been released from medical supervision if he was still deemed to be dangerous?"

I don't have to answer that. I'm grateful that we're smothered in darkness—he can't see my cheeks flush in embarrassment. He would never let me see the end of it.

"Katniss, I know you're scared." There's a strange pigment of sympathy in his voice, a tone that I don't remember hearing from Haymitch. "But look at it from his perspective for a moment. The boy is just as scared as you are—especially during one of those episodes. I can't even imagine how terrifying it would be to not be able to identify what's reality and what's not. The last thing he needs is more stress from worrying about your reaction."

Even though my face feels hot and my stomach sinks uncomfortably, I'm reminded of exactly why I came here. Despite being an obsessive drunk, Haymitch is a lot more perceptive and analytical than estimated.

"It's just… It's not the same."

I can almost hear him rolling his eyes because it's so overt. "Of course it's not the same. Sweetheart, he was _tortured_."

Maybe it's his tone that agitates me, or maybe it's because of the truth in his words that I've known for weeks yet still strive to deny. "You don't have to tell me that," I bite back. "I see the aftermath of that every damn day." And I'm reminded of how it was my fault.

"Well, then maybe you've come to realize that this isn't going to be a cakewalk. If you want Peeta in your life, you should know by now that it's _not_ going to be easy. Both of you are severely traumatized and to be frank, I think you're both a piece of work. You in particular."

"Thanks." My voice is practically dripping in sarcasm.

He begins to feel the surface at his side for a bottle that has at least some bit of promise left in it; thankfully, he finds none. "Look. I know you care about Peeta. And I know he cares about you. But after everything you've been through, you've got to understand that just caring for each other won't cut it. You've got to put in the effort to try and understand him and try and console him when he needs it just like he does for you."

Something inside my chest twinges painfully. I can't help but imagine how much simpler things would be if none of this would have happened. If he hadn't been reaped, if he hadn't been captured. If I had just died in the 74th Hunger Games. But then again, I know that it was a necessary price for the revolution—change occurred at our expense. I wish it didn't have to be that way, but I've tried to rework the situation into numerous varying outcomes inside of my head, and no result seems clearly favorable.

I acridly thank Haymitch, knowing full-well that I'll donate a more proper form of gratitude when he's sobered up enough to digest it.

My eyes take a few seconds to adjust to the gleaming sun as it rises overhead once I'm out into the square. Gravel crunches below my feet as I leave the porch and walk up the next.

My mind is filled with thousands of things that I need to say and do as I march up the steps. Again, I find myself knocking twice on the door, but on this occasion I assume that just two raps will suffice.

And they do.

The door swings open in front of me, and in the threshold he stands, hair slightly tousled from a sleepless night, dark shadows circling under his eyes. His eyebrows knit together and immediately I see his already shallow eyes fill with ache. A million thoughts flood my head. What should I say to him? He opens his mouth to express what I can predict as some sort of unwarranted apology, but before he can speak, and before I realize exactly what I'm doing, I step forward to wrap my thin arms around his torso, burying my head in the crook of his neck. I can feel his hesitation, but I refuse to back down. I need this. I need to feel this again. And just maybe he needs it, too. It only takes a few moments for him to process my greeting, and I feel his arms surround me in return, engulfing me with a form of warmth and security I'd almost forgotten was possible. I hadn't trusted him with his arms since before he was taken by the Capitol. But in this moment that choice seems so absurd. Because now, even though I know we have a lot of growing left to do, I feel confident that the boy with the bread will not prove to be the monster I was afraid of. He is no monster.

He is Peeta. The boy with the empathetic blue eyes, with the contagious smile. He is peaceful, charismatic, and endures the impossible.

He is my dandelion in the spring.

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_Thank you for the read! Again, if you have any time, pop by to leave a comment. If you have any input/ideas on how I can make this story better, feel free to share. Have a wonderful day! :)_


	4. Nurturing

_Thank you for the kind reviews last chapter! They're always much appreciated. :)_

_Disclaimer: This is all property of Suzanne Collins and not me._

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One night at dinner, as the three of us are seated at the dining room table, Sae clears her throat.

"I don't want you to think that I'm abandoning you, Katniss," she begins cautiously.

I have a chunk sourdough that Peeta brought over for dinner wedged in between my teeth when she says this. My jaw freezes at her prelude, and I feel my mouth drying with anticipation. I look to Peeta, expecting him to at least reflect a portion of the same anxiety that I am very overtly displaying, but I find him already watching me with a strange element of concern in his gaze. As if he's analyzing my reaction to Sae.

He knows something I don't. They _both_ know something I don't. Why does no one ever tell me things? Is it because they think I'm too fragile to handle it?

I finally manage to gulp the wad of bread down, but it very slowly slugs its way through my esophagus. I shiver and my stare flickers back to Sae as an invitation for her to continue.

She sighs. "My job here is done, dear. You're infinitely better than you were when you first came back. Looking healthier and more content every day."

A wave of panic flushes through my nerves, and my head whips over to Peeta, my braid flipping over my shoulder. He look just as calm as he did a few moments ago, causing a shard of anger to slice through my chest. _He knew._ How could Sae tell him before me?

"What am I going to do?" I grouse half-discordantly, half-alarmed at the situation at hand. I can't support myself, at least not for a little while longer. I haven't needed to fend for myself since before the war ended, and I was a wholly different being back then. I was the mockingjay, a symbol of resistance and strength. Now I've crumbled into hopeless dependence. I have little to no survival skills left to my name. "I can't hunt. I can't do it, not yet. I'm no good at baking…" _And I don't want to be alone every meal. Every morning, every night. Peeta will have no reason to come over anymore._ But I can't say that. I may be emotionally decrepit, but in no way am I any less stubborn.

Now it is Peeta who interjects himself into the conversation with a chuckle. I crisply jerk my torso in his direction, indignant. Does he think this is funny?

Before I can spurt out a response to his completely inappropriate reaction, he enlightens me. "Do you think that _I_ would just let you starve?"

My muscles tense.

"Oh." I hadn't even thought of that.

He leans forward, arms folded across his chest with his elbows resting on the table. "Sae has a business to run and a granddaughter to look after. I talked to her last night about how to handle the situation—honestly, I bake most of the day anyway, so it won't be any extra trouble to feed you. Also, I'd like to host you for a change."

Now it makes sense as to why I'm the last person to be clued in on the arrangement. Sae wouldn't leave me to fend for myself without any backup. Of course she'd talk to Peeta first to verify that I was in good hands—and very good hands at that.

When we've finished our meals, and Sae has lit a fire for the night, Peeta and I separate for a brief moment while I walk her to the door. As she bundles up for the bitter night outside, I help her gather her things.

"I'm sorry I panicked at dinner," I murmur quietly.

She stands before me, back slightly hunched from years of work, the skin of her face weathered and wrinkled. Her eyes, which are deep in their age and wisdom, carry a sad but compassionate sparkle.

"You've got nothing to be sorry about, dear." Her hand rests gently on my shoulder as it always does when she relays her goodbyes.

Something in this farewell is particularly bittersweet. "I'm going to miss you."

"I'll still see you every day or so!" she laughs without restraint. And then, a little softer, "When you come through the market on your way to the woods, stop in for a visit. I'll always be more than happy to see you."

I smile half-heartedly, my throat thick. Sae's eyes look past me to Peeta for just a moment, and I follow her gaze. There lies the boy with the bread, stretched out comfortably in front of the fire. He doesn't see us, his eyes too lost in the flames that burn his favorite color and paint his skin in orange light.

Her voice, despite its low tone quality and explicit softness, still startles me. "You've got a good man looking after you, dear. He'll take good care of you."

The corners of my mouth turn up on their own. Even though it's only been a month since he came back, the sense of security that used to always accompany his presence has already begun to materialize once again.

"I know he will." Of that, I am confident. Every inch of him radiates amiability—the exuberance in his gaze, the strength of his shoulders and arms, his minutely flushed cheeks, angular jaw, soft smile. "It was certainly nice of him to agree to help me on his own."

"Agree?" I look back to her to see her eyes twinkle through wizened lids. "Honey, Peeta was the one who volunteered. He came to me last night on his own accord to ask if he could look out for you."

My head flickers back to Peeta, still reclined by the hearth, watching the flames dance. He seems to be absorbed in his own thoughts.

"He did?" I cannot cloak my disbelief. Although I shouldn't be so surprised—Peeta has always been incredibly nurturing.

When I look back to her, Sae is nodding. "The boy really does care about you."

And all at once, it's time for her to leave; she rubs my shoulder as she presents a gentle goodbye and good night. And then she's gone.

My tread to the hearth is a slow, contemplative one. I can't help but wonder why Peeta would so randomly offer to take me under his wing. I'm certain it was partially out of consideration for Sae and her own time, but why now?

As I near him, he must sense my close proximity for he turns his head to look at me and grin invitingly. It's in this moment that I know why. It's so evident in the way he looks at me, in the way his chest depresses with a sigh of satisfaction.

Peeta may not love me again, and I know that I am not ready to love him in return. But I realize as I stand before him that he knows that remaining stagnant in wait for us to grow back together is going to provide no prize. Peeta is trying.

And I will not allow his attempts to go without reward.

"What are you thinking about?" I ask him, sitting beside him in the light of the flames.

Air expels from his lungs audibly, and he shrugs. "I have a lot of things running through my head." And then he pauses. "Are you okay with this whole arrangement? I realize we never even asked you what you wanted."

There he goes, being as considerate as always.

I nod slightly, my stare out-of-focus, lost somewhere in the fireplace.

Peeta lifts a hand, his fingers toying with the tail of my braid; I sit still and let him continue. We don't say much for the remainder of the night, but considering I've never been fond of small talk, I am more than comfortable with the silence.

That night, I dream of Prim. The sky is hazy, unforgiving as I stand far back from the Capitol steps. I see her, darting with her shirttail untucked, golden braids flying behind her. There's children everywhere. I know that the bombs are coming, and that Prim won't escape. Her fate has already been set in stone, and I try to reach out, I try to run and save her, but my feet are plastered to the floor.

And then a second familiar figure projects into view. The boy, with his wide-set shoulders and blonde hair, runs after Prim. He knows the bombs are coming, too; unlike me, he has the capacity for movement. He's trying to save her.

My entire body is frozen in time, frozen in place. My heart has stopped. My mouth can only move to form the word _no_.

And then I see them. They're falling from the sky, from the dismal gloom overhead, growing nearer, nearer, nearer….

He just reaches Prim, his arms wrapping around her to shield her when the first explosion ignites the steps. Screams echo from all around me, drowning out my own which rips painfully through my lungs.

"_Prim!"_ I screech into the haze, the flames engulfing her and the boy. _"Peeta!"_

I jolt awake, screaming his name. The empty darkness around me seems so hollow yet so hostile, suffocating me in its hold. My throat is splitting with an excruciating cry, and I thrash underneath the blankets. Prim. Peeta. They're gone.

Once reality begins to settle in my bones, my muscles slowly relax and my scream transforms into a helpless whimper. My hairline is caked with sweat, sticky and hot. I can hardly breathe.

_It's just a dream_, I tell myself. But that's only half-true. I manage to convince myself that Peeta is alive, but there's no denying that the second party isn't. I weep in gratitude that he's not far but also with the ache that Prim is gone. It _wasn't_ just a dream. Prim is dead.

I cannot bring myself to sleep for the remainder of the night. When I close my eyes, a flood of colors bursts behind my lids; I see oranges, reds, yellows, the black of smoke. I see Peeta grasping Prim in attempt to protect her, just as he does with every being he cares for. I see her braids. I see her little duck tail. I see the flames.

After an hour or so, lying in bed without allowing myself to drift off becomes an impossible task. My emotions run high but my patience has worn down. I can't sleep, though—not after that nightmare. I have enough experience with dreams like those to know that any other period of sleep in the remainder of the night will contain the same degree of trauma. Nightmares always seem to reappear.

I drag myself out of bed and begin to pace around my room, fists clenched at my sides. My nails dig deep into my palms just to keep me conscious.

As dawn begins to near, I tromp down the stairs in quest to find something to keep me occupied. The living room smells faintly of smoke as it always does these days.

I keep busy until the blue-violet light of early daybreak floods the room. As the window to the world outside begins to display the pastels of sunrise, I imagine how calming Peeta would find this moment. He loves his sunrises as well as his sunsets. The sky shifts into his favorite color of orange for a few immeasurable moments, and I stand still, absorbing every second.

Once the daylight breaks, showering the world below with the light of morning, I trudge over to Peeta's house. Every step is a battle between my willpower and my exhausted muscles.

I knock just twice on the door, unable to muster more energy for a third.

Within a few seconds, the door swings open to reveal an inexplicably excited Peeta. The blues of his eyes are glimmering this morning as he holds the door open with one hand and a bowl of pale batter in the other.

Once he takes me in, his smile drops.

"Katniss?"

I must look like hell. At least, I feel like it. The cool breeze from the morning sweeps through my tangled hair, and for the first time this morning I'm able to actually _feel_ something in my otherwise numb body.

"I know, I look absolutely ravishing this morning." My tone is heavily sarcastic but not ill-natured. I step inside, passing him on my way to the kitchen table as I am immediately cuffed by the warm scent of rising bread and… ham? Some sort of meat must be cooking in the kitchen because the sound of grease crackling wafts through the front hall. I halt just as I'm passing the living room. "What's for breakfast?"

"Uh… eggs and bacon. And biscuits on the side." His speaks slowly with caution. When I turn to him, his brow is furrowed. "Are you okay?"

"Didn't sleep much," I retort indifferently as I let myself collapse onto the nearest sofa. His furniture is certainly far more comfortable than mine—although maybe bathing in the scent of high-quality breakfast on top of being absolutely exhausted makes anything feel plush.

He follows me into the lounge, still clasping his bowl of batter, looking me up and down. He hesitates. "Do you want to skip breakfast so you can sleep?"

"The last thing I want to do is sleep." Again, my response is far from hostile, just predominantly aloof.

I don't have to explain any further for Peeta to understand. He has enough nightmares of his own to be able to empathize with my choice. His features stiffen, but his eyes look down on me with both sympathy and concern.

"What was the nightmare about this time?"

_Prim. And you. Dying_. I can't tell him. Instead, I shut my lids, rubbing the ache from my temples. "I really don't want to talk about it."

He slides his bowl carefully onto the end table to the right of the sofa, seating himself at my side. Without speaking, his fingers find the band at the base of my braid, pulling it out.

"What are you doing?"

I can hear him breathe through a smile. "Your hair's a mess, Katniss." He offers no further explanation as he begins to pull apart the dark strands of hair, running his fingers through my tangled tresses. I feel my cheeks growing redder and turn my head away from him so that he can't see it. He assumes the motion is an invitation to continue.

I would be lying if I said I didn't like the feeling of his hands brushing through my hair. The very delicate pulling against my scalp, the gentle movements that even his marginally shaky hands can supply, all provide a new level of comfort. His finger unintentionally brushes against the cartilage of my ear in a way that causes the hair on the back of my neck to rise.

Peeta has always been good with his hands. Even though they've been very slightly unsteady since the war, he can still apply such minute detail to cakes and to paintings that even my stable hands couldn't dream of crafting. That's why I'm not surprised at the gentle tugs on my hair as he begins to braid it for me again in movements so soothing that I nearly drift off. It takes him a few moments to work out the mechanics of the hairstyle, but once he does, he's finished in a quick minute. I reach up to feel the back of my head, my fingers delineating the even ridges of the braid.

"Peeta, if cooking doesn't work out for you, you could always become a hairstylist," I joke lightly.

His reacting chuckle is as delicate as it is musical. "Good to know I have a back-up plan." And then his hands, which have just finished wrapping the band around the tail of my braid, move to the knotted section of my back in between my shoulder blades. With temperate pressure rich in intention, his thumbs work against my muscles. My body sways back and forth with the movements of his hands. Goosebumps rise over every square inch of my skin, and my breathing evens, calming the storm in my mind.

I thank him when he's finished, looking over my shoulder to meet his blue eyes. He's smiling so softly at me, and my returning grin is almost as genuine.

He parts to go to the kitchen, finishing up with breakfast as I take my sweet time arriving in the dining room. I seat myself diagonally from the head of the table, waiting patiently. I guess the only time that I will dare experiment with patience is when food is on the horizon.

Breakfast is served soon after, and I can't help but giggle when he sets my plate in front of me. Despite being a truly talented artist, Peeta has made an awfully disproportioned smiley face on my dish—the two fried eggs as eyes, the bacon arranged in a crooked grin, and the pale biscuit centered in the middle of the plate as an outrageously large nose. If his goal for the morning was to cheer me up, his antics have done the trick as thoroughly as possible.

"Didn't your mother ever teach you not to play with your food?" I mock.

He seats himself across from me and responds steadily. "Well, technically, it wasn't _my_ food that I was playing with."

The two of us break down into contained yet genuine laughter, and already, my morning is leaps and bounds better than I could've possibly predicted.

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_Hope you enjoyed the chapter! I promise to update as soon as I possibly can. I've been posting a lot lately because I've been sick, but if all goes according to plan and I'm back at school again, I might not have another chapter for a few days. But anyway, if you can, drop in and leave a review so that I know what I'm doing right/need to fix. Until next time! :)_


	5. Magnificence

_Hey guys! So I thought I'd do a little something different with this chapter…. Let me know if you like it! If you do, I'll try to incorporate the alternate perspective more often but if not I'll be sure that this is the last time. Without further ado, I hope you enjoy! :)_

_Disclaimer: I own nothing._

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On the first evening that brings dinner to my house, I'm earnestly hell-bent on providing exactly what she deserves: no less than perfection. The mornings in which Sae would make us pancakes seems to bring the most euphoria, so that is _exactly_ what she will find on the menu for tonight. After all, my sole objective of the day is to please her, hopefully facilitating her transition to a more stable state of mind.

I'm aware that Katniss is emotionally piecing herself back together—very slowly, by all means, but that doesn't detract from the fact that she's made progress overall—and each day that I wake to find her cheeks a little more flushed, her silver eyes just a shred more sanguine, her entire aura releasing a glow that is characteristic to only her, I manage to piece myself back together, too. It's all because when she blooms, I bloom in reflection. Naturally, her growing wellness is stunted by those days in which she can hardly remove herself from bed for breakfast. I know those mornings just as intricately as she, however; I have them too, if not more often. Yet I can deduce that hers are far worse when they do arise. I can see it in the way her lids bare too much weight on those days to the point where she can hardly keep her eyes open. I can see it in her slumping shoulders and paling lips. Unlike her, when my nightmares tug me awake, and my hallucinations plunge me into another world, I resurface and I manage to recognize the difference between them and reality. It may take a few moments, but once the episodes are over, I can find a state of placidity that allows me to move on. Conversely, when those dreams find Katniss, they saturate themselves in every facet of her mind, piercing her all the way to her bones. Even though she can consciously understand the difference between her dreams and reality, she struggles to accept even what she knows as true. She's truly haunted in every sense of the word, and even though the morning can open her eyes, it cannot wash her of the nightmares that she wears for the rest of the day like clothing.

But we make do. Although the battle proves never to be won, Katniss and I fight for the right to find a mental harmony in the shadow of the peace we've delivered to Panem. This rhythm, however, is far from easy to establish. The two of us seem to occupy a surreal cosmos of paradoxical struggle; we rotate in this sickening push-pull circumstance. She's growing, blossoming, mending herself piece by piece. And then she crumbles unexpectedly, unpredictably. I rise when she does and I fall the same. If the two of us seem to manage to attain that rare state of equilibrium—which does occur, like the evenings when she returns from her long escapades in the woods, when she is _truly_ happy, and so am I in return—it doesn't last for long. Something will trigger a hallucination in me, or a painful memory in her. Within the night we'll plummet back into that remorseless hollow of our minds, and it almost feels as if we've lost them.

I find irrational comfort in the awareness that this struggle is not known only to us. We sometimes write to Johanna. To Annie as well. Although neither will disclose their true mental situation, both Katniss and I witness the same patterns in them as us. We're all irreversibly fractured. As each day passes and the fragility, the instability, fails to leave our bones, the light at the end of the tunnel seems more and more artificial. We'll all convalesce to varying degrees. But we will never be fixed. What we've all seen, what we've all experienced in those perverse games of war and revolution…. You can't just come back from that. My entire body aches every day that I watch Katniss smile to know that it won't persist. Yet this does not mean I stop trying to make her happy—to the contrary, actually. It fuels my hunger for her pleasure. If I crave her revival, I'm obliged to instigate it myself.

But anyway, back to the now.

As I beat the pancake batter, my movements intentional and vigorous, I stare out of my kitchen window to watch the already bleak night opposite the glass. The days have grown excruciatingly short as winter breathes her terminal, merciless breath over the district. Although I much prefer the warmer months where nighttime is comfortable, inviting, I don't completely despise this season. If anyone has disaccord with winter it would be Katniss—and very explicable, justified disaccord at that. I can only imagine how frustrating it must be for her to be chased out of the woods by dark more prematurely as the weeks grow older.

I add a considerable amount of berries to the pancake batter. I pray that this will favor Katniss—I, miraculously, managed to stumble across some fresh produce at the market today and couldn't help but indulge myself. By the time my little venture was over, I had in my possession all kinds of foods I'd never applied but was eager to experiment with.

Hence, the meal today: blueberry pancakes with maple syrup, of course—Katniss is exhaustively attached to the stuff (this is her second favorite food, falling only to cheese buns), roasted green beans with lemon and garlic, and a sweet potato dish coated in brown sugar. My intention is to provide enough to ultimately fill her to the brim. As picturesque as Katniss already is, I can't help but concern myself with her sharp edges tightly hugged with skin. Her stomach is flat, allowing jagged hipbones to project. I'm remembering several nights before this, when she extended her thin arms to grab a bowl from a high cabinet. Her shirt had naturally ridden up just over her navel, revealing her angular features. Even though she's been digesting her food particularly well this past month, I can see no dramatic substantiation. The girl is skeletal. Beautiful, nevertheless, but submerged in intense emaciation.

Neither Katniss nor I have set a definitive time at which she's supposed to arrive, just like we hadn't set one for me, but I still know when she'll show. Both of us run on relatively the same internal clock, and it's when I've just finished lighting the fire in the hearth and dressing the table that I hear two deliberate knocks. It's always two, enigmatically, but I don't question it.

It's now that I begin to feel strange. My throat has desiccated, my skin burning over every inch of my body. My breath is caught somewhere in between my lungs and my throat.

Am I really that nervous? It's just Katniss.

_It's just Katniss_. Something in my own assurance seems so oxymoronic. _Just Katniss_. I wipe my clammy palms, moist with sweat, on the side of my pants—surely, my wardrobe has no flash that is characteristic of, say, the Capitol, but in my white pullover, layered over a grey collared shirt with the complement of black trousers, is bound to partially impress in any rate. At least, I hope. Stirring Katniss's approval is no easy feat.

Once my slippery palm manages to tug the door open by the knob, I'm immediately batted by shock. _Just Katniss_, I mock inwardly again.

As if there's anything modest, anything mild to Katniss's guise. Katniss is beautifully undomesticated; exquisitely valiant in all her magnificence. She _is_ pulchritude. I find thoughts much like these running through my head as I take her in, inch by inch. She never fails to stun me, but tonight she dazes me particularly. The Katniss dressed in hunter's gear with an intricate braid parting her shoulder blades that I've memorized for years is gone. Before me she stands, shimmering in unfamiliar, almost feminine maturity. Her slender body is draped in a pale pink tunic, a dark grey cardigan hugging her arms and torso as a shield against the bitter air. She must've recently showered, because her hair, dark and more tamed with the presence of moisture, rolls in silky waves over her shoulders. Her presence is overcome by a stable elegance that she's rarely promoted against her fierce confidence.

Yet, her silver eyes still gleam with the same ferociousness I'd grown to love more and more as I came to know her, the buoyant self-assurance that dominates an entire room. The poise that made her the Girl on Fire, the mockingjay. It's a thrilling tenacity that's been primarily absent from her expression since I came back, only showing in very brief intervals. But I relish every one of those moments, just as I relish her now.

My fingers stiffen at my side, resisting the urge to reach out, touch her somewhere, _anywhere_—her face, glowing fully for the first time in a month, her lips, red and fearless, her hair, streaming calmly over her shoulders like a chocolate web. I ache to tell her. _Katniss, you look absolutely beautiful._ It's only when her cheeks redden and she tucks her chin down bashfully that I realize… I said it out loud.

God Damnit.

Her smile reaches her eyes, and I savor this brief instance of inexplicable euphoria. I haven't seen her this happy since… since before the war, I think. And I haven't even asked her why.

I find myself chuckling as she steps inside, letting the door fall shut behind her, stifling the chilling draft. "What's gotten into you?" I laugh.

She shrugs, closing her eyes for just a second before pushing past me. And then I watch her body unwind as she inhales the room around her. Her eyes shoot open and she springs into question, utterly disregarding mine. "Damn, Peeta. This is already the best meal I've had in weeks and I haven't even tasted it yet."

I wonder why she's blatantly ignoring my inquiry, but I let it pass. As long as she's happy.

We're both standing in the corridor before she motions to the dining room in delicate mockery. "After you, Mr. Mellark," she teases in her overdramatically imbued Capitol accent.

I lead her into the dining room, yearning to lace my fingers in with hers for just a moment while doing so. She follows manneredly. At the table, I pull out the chair that's seated at the head. "For you, my lady." My mock-Capitol accent clearly vanquishes hers.

She seats herself, but not without protest. "Isn't the man of the house supposed to sit at the head of the table?"

I shrug, my finger lightly, unintentionally, grazing against her shoulder as I step towards the kitchen. I feel a shock resonate through my nerves down to the tips of my toes. "I think it's fitting that you sit here, don't you?"

"Not at all," she laughs.

But it's painstakingly obvious to me. Katniss is the commander in chief, the natural-born leader. She is a lioness. I am the boy with the bread, the provider, the nurturer. I'm there to hold her when she grows weak and collapses, but in moments like these, when her fearlessness radiates from her luminous skin, she is the one meant to guide the way.

I'm taking another step back when she shifts. "Answer my question!" she commands as stubbornly as always. Strangely, I'm satisfied by her tenacity. It means my old Katniss is coming back.

"I'll answer yours once you answer mine," I respond flippantly, referring to the unanswered query in regards to her sudden change in behavior.

As she sits in wait, I finish dressing the plates in the kitchen, arranging the green beans in casually appealing piles next to half-shaped mounds of sweet potatoes. I slanted a stack of three decent-sized pancakes on her plate, hoping that it will encourage her to over-eat as opposed to the latter. She could use the extra mass. Carrying her plate in one hand and a china pot filled with syrup in another, I round the head of the table and delicately place the dish in front of her. Her eyes light up at the sight of her favorite breakfast, and even more once the teapot is within her reach. I quickly bring my plate over so I can sit down beside her, absorbing her reaction.

Her expression paints her like a small child in a candy store. "Breakfast for dinner should be more of a social norm," she states evenly, the entranced illustration over her features deepening.

"I thought you would appreciate it."

It's now that she looks to me, cocking her head slightly, laying out a very gentle, genuine, "Thank you, Peeta."

We begin to pick away at our food—naturally, she goes straight for the pancakes by drowning them in syrup. I'm amazed at her appetite tonight.

I decide to ask her again, but more sincerely than before in attempt to elicit a response this time around. "Why are you so happy today?"

Pushing spare syrup about on her plate with the edge of her fork, she shrugs, her eyes evading me. I'm surprised at her colossal inhale, which provides warning that she's going to donate a response just as substantial. "I don't really know. I guess, when I was sitting out in my w—in _the_ woods—" She coughs at her correction, although I'm not surprised at her unintentional addition of possession. "I was just thinking about how far you've come, and how far _I've_ come, and how we have so much ground left to cover but we've already made so much progress. I don't stop to think about how much I've changed very often, but after I had that nightmare last night—" Her tone quiets minimally—"and you cheered me up infinitely at breakfast, I realized that it's exhausting to dwell on how much more ground I have left to cover. Why not be proud of my accomplishments? Of… of _our_ accomplishments? I mean, Peeta, I could barely even look at you when you first got back because I didn't think that I deserved your friendship. I didn't think you had the potential to love me again. I was afraid of you, I was depressed at the thought of how much I lost… and I mean, some of that, I'm never going to get back. I don't think I should be so afraid to mourn that. But after the dream last night, I realized that there's a lot more that I have to lose. I shouldn't always depress myself over memories of what I don't have any longer and start focusing on all the things and people that I have now. Like you. I shouldn't take you for granted. Your company is the only reason that I'm as well as I am today. I know, and _you_ know, that it isn't perfect—far from, actually—but you try so hard for me and I need to put back that same effort. So I should stop sulking around, and stop being so afraid all the damn time, and make something of myself, I guess. Does that make sense?"

After every solitary word, a new question bubbles to my lips. But I manage to hold my tongue; I let her speech flow free-fall from her mouth, because I know full-well that she has never been incredibly articulate and that whenever I'm allowed the opportunity to listen to her sustained commentary, I should value it. Extended rants are not in Katniss's nature. She's one of few words who thinks everything over until it's half-dead before piping up.

"It makes perfect sense," I reply breathily, my eyes trying to hook deep into hers. "But you're allowed to be afraid, Katniss. I'm afraid, too. I don't believe that this fear is ever going to go away—it's an unfortunate product of the trauma both of us went through. I guess it's just the price of the revolution."

Her chest caves in with a sigh. "I'm just tired of being so terrified of myself. You're right, Peeta—" The way her lips curl around my name sends an inherent shiver down my spine—"It's alright to be afraid, but I can't live my entire life with this weight on my shoulders."

"That's what I'm here for." A distant memory shimmers through my head—one that seemed to lurk in the depths of my mind that the Capitol had never tried to touch. "I strictly remember you telling Haymitch that I could swing a hundred-pound sack of flower over my shoulders, so I _clearly_ have the strength to carry some of your weight as well."

I can see her silver eyes smoldering with recollection. "You try so damn hard to make me happy, Peeta. I don't think I'll ever understand why."

Easily, I could begin to spew off the thousands upon thousands of reasons that I adore her, but instead of barricading her with a treatment to her symptoms, I aim at the root of the lack of confidence itself. "Why would I _not_ want to make you happy?"

My chest painfully coils at the sight of her darkening expression. Her zeal from the beginning of the night is slowly being replaced by docility as a result of my prodding.

"I've never understood, Peeta, and I doubt that will ever change. Especially after… after what happened when the Capitol took you." Even with the memory itself, her eyes glaze over with moisture. _Oh god, please don't cry._ What have I done?

"Do you think that makes a difference?"

She shoots me down with her penetrating stare. I shouldn't have asked that; I know the answer. It makes _all_ the difference to Katniss. Ever since I came back to twelve, she's regarded me as a half-authentic impression of the Peeta Mellark she'd grown attached to over the course of the games. I resent that. Up until this moment, I've been too guarded to spell it out for her—I came close that one morning she appeared on my doorstep after first experiencing one of my episodes, but never have I been so flagrant in my clarification. If there is ever a time that she needs amplification, the time has arrived.

"Katniss, I am the same boy that grew up absolutely _enamored_ with you. Most of my memories of you have come back to their original state, like those nights that you let me hold you on the train, the morning you kissed me on the beach. In theory, a person can't come back from being hijacked but I would bet my _life_ on the opposite. If you think that I don't want you to be happy because I thought for that cloudy, rough period that you were out to get me, you're utterly wrong. I know better now. After being with you for over a month, I can honestly say with every fiber of my being that I care for you no less than the last night I saw you in the arena during the Quarter Quell." I was willing to lay my life on the line for her, and I would be willing to do so again if the circumstances necessitated it.

She watches me with softening features, her fingers brushing dark locks from her eyes as she sniffles. A single drop of saltwater brims over her lid, trailing down her cheek as my spiel elicits her sad smile once more.

"Real or not real?" she whispers.

I confirm what I hope has already begun to settle in her core enduringly. "Real."

Her hands find her face, wiping the salt off her cheeks as she rises from her seat; I rise, too, and immediately find my arms winding themselves around her tiny being. Her face nuzzles into the crook of my neck as she trembles ever-so-slightly. I feel a deep-rooted sense of solace in the moment as if I was born just to provide her consolation.

She lives up to the label as the Girl on Fire as her skin sears into mine, everything about her warming me all the way through. The planes and hollows of her body suit mine perfectly as if we're two corresponding pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

I usher her to the fire and bring her blankets, allowing her to settle in at the base of the hearth as I quickly clean up from dinner. I promise myself to finish washing dishes after she's gone for the night once I've spent too many moments away from her and in my kitchen. When I return to the living room, she's perched atop the stool that rests in line with my easel, studying the half-finished painting on the stand with hungry eyes. My cheeks tingle as it occurs to me that she hasn't seen one of my portraits since I returned; Dr. Aurelius had suggested art as a form of therapy while I was in the Capitol, and since my homecoming, many sleepless nights are occupied by soft brush strokes and explosions of color.

"Peeta, this is incredible," she murmurs quietly as I stand off her shoulder, regarding the painting from behind her. So far, I'm filling in a portrait of Finnick, dimpled smile and all. My intention is to send it to Annie when it's finished—I know from a letter she wrote us a few weeks back that she has hardly any pictures of Finnick, particularly not recent ones. On the canvas lies his figure, muted blues and greens swirling in the background. He's laughing, the corners of his eyes crinkled in unadulterated happiness. I want Annie to be able to remember him in this state.

Before I can say anything in return, she speaks again. "How many paintings have you done?"

I chuckle at the thought. "I couldn't give you an accurate estimate even if I tried."

And then, the real question that had been dancing on her tongue emerges.

"How many paintings have you done of me?"

_Over half of them._ I reserve the truth in fear that it'll frighten or embarrass her. Painting Katniss is the most relaxing of all, as it allows me to at least attempt to appropriately express her beauty even when she's away even though my best portraits cannot do her justice.

My response is late and I feel her grin slightly at my hesitation. "Several." It's not a lie, per se.

I'm relieved that she accepts that—or at least recognizes that she's not going to receive an answer more self-deprecating in its honesty—and slides off the stool, lowering herself to the floor by the fire. Her tiny silhouette is enshrouded in a thick blanket I've brought down from my room; my heart flutters a bit as I see her sniff it, breathing it in. I settle down beside her, allowing the warmth from the fire to seep into my core.

My head intuitively turns to regard her, her hair falling beautifully all around her shoulders. I brush some out of her face once again, and although she flinches instinctively—as she has been for the past month when she's touched without warning—she quickly stills herself. When my fingers lightly graze the skin of her brow, she blushes slightly, but still doesn't look to me.

We don't say much the rest of the night; rather, we just bask in the heat of the flames, wrapped tightly in each other's presence. Occasionally, I find myself looking over to her as she glances to me, our gazes interlocking, drawing coy grins from both of our lips. Tonight, we are happy. I do everything in my power to maintain this brief moment of equilibrium while I can.

That night, after Katniss has bid me farewell for the evening, after I've finished the dishes, I return to my easel with a tray full of paints, setting the painting of Finnick aside for the night. I stare at the blank canvas for what feels like an eternity, visualizing how I'll paint her tonight. I close my eyes only to meet her silver ones, fiery and full of exhilaration. However, the more I assemble her in my mind, magnificent in her grandeur, the more I discourage myself. There is absolutely no approach possible that will achieve even half of what I intend to convey. Katniss cannot be recreated. Once the hours of the night are growing thin and the world is utterly still around me, I slip off to bed, drifting off for only a few hours before I jolt myself awake for breakfast.

The next few weeks continue in a relatively steady pattern, to my surprise. Overall, the old Katniss begins to bleed through in conversations with wittily sarcastic remarks that display not only enthusiasm but her characteristic stubbornness. Intermittently, she falls out of rhythm from occasional nightmares, but I'm very thankful that these become the exception to the rule. Katniss is healing before my eyes.

I call Dr. Aurelius weekly, as always (Katniss, theoretically, is supposed to follow through with over-the-phone checkups as well but has done so only once), and find myself reporting more of Katniss than of my own performance. Remarkably, he doesn't seem to mind, possibly because he knows that my condition directly reflects hers.

Astonishingly, her progress brings about an unexpected change in her behavior. Although she prefers to retreat to the woods during most afternoons, on occasion, she'll sacrifice those hours of repose to take long strolls with me around twelve. We watch as the district builds herself up from the ground; the market was the first to spring to life, and slowly, new residences begin to rise from the ashes. Most are particularly small, as twelve is still relatively poor compared to other districts (or so I hear), but what quarters are being constructed now are far more upscale than the crumbling shacks that used to be scattered all over before the war.

The sight of growth and development is certainly not the only thing to please me—I find some form of selfish satisfaction in parading Katniss around at my side, on my arm. Even though we're not _together_ together, our friendship is undeniable, tried and true. We receive elated beams from the people who had been rooting for us all along, and then some. Although the attention makes Katniss squirm, I find a bit of pride in these moments. I deduce that she can't despise it too entirely or she would've suggested we stop taking our promenades long ago.

Oftentimes, on the way home from our long walks, we stop by Haymitch's house. Although he typically grouses at our visits, I know he doesn't hate the company. After he gets over the initial shock of having whatever booze around poured on his head to drag him back into consciousness, he manages decent interaction. The three of us will sit around for long hours, throwing sardonic retorts at each other, and for a brief moment it takes me back to before everything was destroyed, back before we lost everything. Sometimes, when I look to Katniss, I catch her eyes glazing over and I know she feels the same.

He'll never accept our invitation for dinner—I assume it's because his dietary habits are far different than ours—but for the occasional afternoons that the three of us spend in the hazy living room of Haymitch's home, musky with the floating scent of alcohol, I can see that Katniss grows more whole ever-so-slightly.

Whether it's after a visit to Haymitch's or after several long hours spent in the woods, Katniss comes over to my place for dinner in fairly good moods. She eats more regularly now, digesting full meals in one sitting. It's noticeable in the way her cheeks fill out more healthily than before, her angles less defined, her movements more fluid. Of course, Katniss is thin, as she'll always be with her daily dose of exercise—whether it be from our walks or her long ventures into the forest—but at least she looks decently-nourished. As she should, being in the care of a baker.

After supper, we'll retreat to the fire which becomes more and more desired as the winter settles deeper into the heart of twelve. I now have a set of blankets that live in the lounge, piled neatly on an end table beside the fireplace. She'll curl up in one like a burrito, nothing but her rosy cheeks and up sticking out. Sometimes I'll paint and she'll watch me; otherwise, she'll write. Katniss has begun to piece together a book full of the people that have ever carried any significance—a small photo of them (or a painting, if a photo cannot be found) will accompany a short bio, which is crafted at her hand on a single page. She begins with Prim. Finnick appears second. Cinna is third. As I paint and she writes, I keep a close eye on her; I have yet to see her break down into sobs, but every time she works on the book, her shoulders slump more despairingly and she mindlessly pushes her hair behind her ears over and over again. But in the end, I know that by her having a small piece of those that she loves—a token to remind her of their impact—she'll become more at ease. Nostalgic, surely, but it will calm her mind after the initial wave of melancholy has passed.

And it certainly shows in the mornings. I know her nightmares will never totally subside, but their frequency begins to dwindle; instead of them occurring three to four times a week, their incidence lowers to once, maybe twice at most out of the seven days. When the sun has risen, drawing her to my residence for breakfast, she seems reasonably content and eager for the oncoming day.

One morning, I notice that she is particularly pleased with something on her mind. Maybe it was a good dream; then again, I don't know what would constitute as a "good dream" for Katniss. Even if it doesn't involve death or destruction, the wistfulness alone from a pleasant one will surely dampen her mornings as is. The best nights, she tells me, are typically the ones where she has no dreams at all.

But this morning, the corners of her lips seem just a tad bit lighter, her silver eyes gleaming. As we eat, I can tell that something is threatening at her lips; she clenches them tightly, mindlessly teasing the end of her braid with her fingertips. I watch her gingerly, but my spirits rise with hers as an enchanting glow emanates from every inch of her skin.

I can't hold it in any longer. With the ring of my fork clinking against my plate, I let out a gentle chuckle. "Spit it out, Katniss."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she purrs, raising her eyebrows. Her innocent act is clearly forged, and I shake my head.

"You're really something, aren't you."

She rolls her eyes, deciding not to hold it back any longer. I hold my breath as she lets it out with a sigh.

"I've decided that I'm going hunting today."

My blood runs cold at the short sentence, my fingers freezing on top of the tablecloth as my eyes flicker to her. I attempt to gulp back my shock, but unfortunately, my efforts go in patent vain. "You're _what_?" I choke.

Her smile fades slightly at my reaction; I guess this was not how she thought I'd take it. "I'm going hunting. I think I'm ready."

My mind draws a blank as it is too overcome with a thousand images flooding its gates. I picture her getting chased, falling, stumbling… how many things can go wrong in one hunting trip? "Are you sure it's safe out there?"

Surprisingly, she lets out a lighthearted chuckle. "As safe as it's ever been, Peeta." I can tell that the mood has shifted, but she's trying to remain calm so that _I_ don't lose it.

"Are you… I mean, are you sure that's a good idea? It's your first time in so long… and you're going out _alone_…"

"I've gone hunting by myself more often than with a partner." She hesitates very marginally on the last two words, and for a brief moment by mind flickers to Gale. She used to hunt with him all the time—they'd have each other's backs. Maybe I do truly resent him for his hand in Prim's death, and for loving Katniss with an actual response from her that I couldn't manage to attain for years, but for the first time that I can remember I wish with all of my soul that he was here. So that he could go out into the woods with her and monitor her to make sure she comes home safe. I'd offer to escort her, but I've got about as much grace as a drunken bear. If I ever stepped out into the woods, the entire animal population of Panem would know.

Besides, the forest is Katniss's sanctuary. The only other person that belonged out there with her was Gale, and even though he's fled the scene, that does not merit my company. I can't disturb her paradise, especially since she spends the rest of her waking hours at my side—I assume she needs some afternoons to herself at least five days a week.

My response is reluctant and sullen but still clear nonetheless.

"Okay." As if she needed some confirmation from me before she was allowed to go hunting. She is very brazenly independent and needs no approval on my end, but my acceptance elicits a slight smile from her lips.

I hear her sigh in relief. "Thank you, Peeta. I know you don't like it. But it's something that I need to do."

She's correct in respect to that. Being able to hunt would signify one big leap in the right direction regarding Katniss's mental health. It's just one more attribute of pre-war Katniss that eventually will need to transition to her post-war persona; she is not truly herself until she's got a bow in her hand and arrows in her bag.

The morning is already growing old, the sun rising higher into the icy blue sky overhead. Even though the light beats down on the district below, not a single ray of heat has managed to break though the atmosphere above, leaving the earth cold and unfriendly. But that is certainly not off-putting to Katniss.

She stands, finished with her meal, ready to take on the world outside. Her step is filled with newfound enthusiasm, and although I'm not too ecstatic with the circumstances surrounding her excitement, I'm happy to see the manifestation nevertheless. She bids me farewell for the morning, and before I can rise to give her a hug, she skips two steps to bend over and plant a delicate kiss on my cheek. Shock sparks through my nerves and I instantly feel all of the blood in my body rush to my face. However, she can't see it; she's already turned around on her caper towards the door.

"Be safe," I whimper softly, half-besotted and half-terrified. When she's reached the door, she thrusts it open and steps out, only turning around for a few split seconds with her thin, little fingers lightly wrapped around the edge of the doorway.

"I will." And then, "Don't have too much fun without me."

Before I can even inhale again, she's gone. I rise to the window to watch her go; she briefly visits her house to layer on more clothing and grab her bow. As she prances down the path toward the gate of the Victor's Village, I'm immediately struck with déjà vu; how many times had I watched her leave to go hunting before the Quarter Quell? I would stand at my window, curtains pulled back just a touch, eyes trailing her as she slipped off to the woods. Only then, I would feel a slight pang in my chest with bitterness, knowing that she was going to see Gale. Now, I feel nothing but outright fear. Never have I been so concerned over an action that's proven to be second nature to Katniss.

During the light hours, I try and busy myself with distractions. Painting, baking, walking around the market. I can imagine that Katniss will want me to cook some game that she's caught when she returns, but as backup, I purchase some flour, cheese, potatoes, chives, and a few other random ingredients to complement whatever she brings.

I visit Haymitch in the afternoon and keep him company until the light outside is beginning to drain from the sky and then hurry home. I start with the bread, instinctively combining ratios of ingredients with the same consistency that I've been employing for years. My exertions are mindless; I could do this in my sleep.

After heating the potatoes in the oven and peeling the skin from their starchy capsules, I crush with slices of warm butter, salt, pepper. Each movement is harsh and I can feel my hands growing shaky. Since the war, my hands have been steadying slightly, but tonight they're uncontrollable. Maybe it's the nerves. I swallow repeatedly and stop every few moments to grip the counter, fighting the hallucinations that I can feel infringing on my mind. They're coming. I can feel them. They're so close. I know it's stress that triggers these episodes; Katniss knows it too, but I can't tell her what's been happening once she gets back from her escapade. The last thing I want is for her to feel guilty for doing something she's been aching to do for months now.

With the bread in the oven and the mashed potatoes settling on the counter, I take deep breaths as I circle around my kitchen. _Come on, Peeta. It's okay. You're okay. She'll be back._ My fingers nervously run though my hair which is in desperate need of a trim. I can feel my lungs growing shallower, my mouth drying. _Peeta. It's okay. She'll be back. She'll be fine._

Once darkness has officially suffocated the world outside, I can feel my lucidity start slipping from my fingers. Katniss wouldn't stay out after dark. She should be home by now.

I swallow again, focusing on my breathing, on keeping calm. I very unhurriedly, deliberately dress the plates with the half-decent meal, setting them on the table. I sit down.

I wait.

It's growing late. Normally, Katniss would've been here a half-hour ago. I close my eyes and promise myself that she got so caught up in hunting for the first time in months that she let time get away from her, and now she's back at her house, showering or cleaning up or something along those lines. Yes. That must be it.

The food is growing colder as seconds, minutes, years seem to pass. I've been counting down for hours to her return, and now that time's expired, I can feel myself begin to panic.

Violently, I push myself out of my seat and begin to pace back and forth through the rooms of my house, through the lounge, through the dining room, up the stairs… all over. I pace. My steps are shaky. My fingernails dig into my palms so aggressively that it shoots pain up and down my spine. _She's okay, Peeta. She's okay._

But as I tread down the stairs and back into the front hall to look out my window and see that not a single light is lit in her house, I'm struck with what I've been trying to deny foolishly all along.

_Something's wrong. She's not okay._

I don't even take the time to throw on my coat as I push out the door, the piercing cold pinching at every inch of my body, stabbing me like a thousand daggers. Only now does it occur to me that instead of counting down to her return, I should be counting up; each second she's absent just increases the chance that I won't see her again. I'm at her door in just a few seconds, pounding.

"Katniss!" I'm screaming, yelling, crying. God, I haven't cried like this in so long. "Katniss, please!"

The tears that brim over my lids freeze the moment they come in contact with the winter air, and I find myself sprinting to Haymitch. Then it is his door that I'm pounding on.

Unlike Katniss, he arrives momentarily.

Even through the darkness, my adjusting eyes can pick up on the one emotion I haven't seen in Haymitch since before I can remember.

Panic.

"Peeta, what's going on?"

"Katniss is gone," I sob, now out of breath and paralyzed with fear, my whimpers carrying through the empty night. "She's gone."


	6. Four Certainties

_Sorry to leave you on a cliffhanger last chapter! I promise this one will resolve much more neatly. :) Special thanks to those of you who gave me such positive reviews – and about Peeta's POV, I will try and add a few more chapters in the future from his perspective where need be. Carry on!_

_Disclaimer: I don't own anything but my rampant imagination. The rest belongs to Suzanne Collins._

* * *

I feel nothing.

I imagine that beyond the numbness I'm being shredded away by the bitter cold. The howl of the wind echoes in my eardrums, but aside from this, the night that's smothering me with brute force holds a strange element of silence. It's as if the world has stopped spinning around me.

Maybe it has. Maybe time has come to its dramatic conclusion—although, I have to admit, the finale left much to be desired.

My back bores into the snow underneath me, my figure twisted, coiled on the earth below. An unpleasant pressure pulsates in both my right ankle and on the back of my head, but the pain I expect to feel from my injuries doesn't shock through my system.

I don't want to be here anymore. I shouldn't have come. I wasn't ready—but then again, how could I have known? Up until this afternoon, my progress had been at a steady incline; I knew I was far from healed, as I'm sure I'll never be restored fully, but I hadn't expected to degenerate so immediately.

The uneven palpitating of my heart feels weak, my breaths strangled.

How late is it? I remember it being just before sunset, the sense of urgency rocking my core—and then suddenly, it was black. I must've lost consciousness after I… after I stumbled. As the recollection of earlier events puddles in my mind, my chest aches not of physical pain, but of something far more emotional, far less tangible. My chest convulses as I stifle a sob even though there's no one out here to hear me, so I can't understand why I'm doing it.

For the first time in two months, an uneasy feeling sets in the pit of my stomach. I feel absolutely, agonizingly alone. Not since before Peeta returned have I felt so forlorn, the cavity in my ribs hollow, my mind utterly expended. My limbs are as good as detached from my body and I couldn't move even if I wanted to. I can feel consciousness slowly slithering from my slack grasp. At least I'm in my woods—unforgiving as ever, frosty in its desertion, but I'm in my true home regardless.

My focus wavers, my eyelids fluttering closed, primed to accept the impending gloom. My lungs seem to hesitate as the heart that they caress slows, fading. I feel myself slipping and I bear no intention of holding on.

The numbness of my body magnifies the only sound I can hear. The moaning wind that surges through the winter forest whistles, howling, and then… I hear it carrying something else. Something stronger, more musical, more urgent.

Is that… my name?

The sound of it draws me out of my approaching slumber just enough for my conscious to lock around it. _Katniss_. Something, someone, is calling my name. Someone's come to find me.

I feel a flicker of disappointment. A very vocal sector of my mind reminds me that I didn't want to be found, not after what happened this afternoon.

My mind is drained of all energy and within a moment it runs blank. My breath draws from my lungs and I feel the elastic black of sleep closing in.

And then, I feel something. Something shattering through my cloak of numbness. A stroke of… warmth.

_Hands_. Soft hands, slightly chilled from the night but far more heated than I, slip underneath my body. They lift me into the air with an abrupt _whoosh_. I hear my name, over and over again, choked out in panic.

"Katniss? Katniss! Please, Katniss!" Over, over, and over again. "Oh my god. Katniss, come on!"

I feel two fingers under my jaw, searching for a pulse.

"Katniss, you're okay. You're going to be okay. Stay with me, stay with me. Katniss. Please." His volume has pacified but the alarm still blares through his lips.

_Peeta._ My limp body, draped over the arms that hold me close to him, seems to rejuvenate just marginally. My head rolls over slightly, my cheek resting against his chest, his warmth engulfing my entire being. The subsidiary part of me that begins to feel again is taken over by a painful ache from the cold, the back of my head throbbing.

I feel a rhythmic, soothing bounce as Peeta begins to stagger through the woods—of course, his pace is broken as he is primitively graceless when it comes to the outdoors. He stumbles but holds on tightly to me, hurrying through the darkness. Just a few moments ago, I was willing to let go. But I can't now. Not with Peeta. It would kill him.

I'll hold on, just a while longer.

The sleep that begins to whisper over me is surely temporary, and with that in mind, I let myself fade.

* * *

My eyes flutter open, hopelessly out of focus as they try to adjust to the change in setting. The room around me is glowing, warmth enveloping me in its invigorating grasp.

"Katniss, you're alright," I hear a voice coo tenderly.

Instantly, my gaze locks in on the boy sitting above me. His blue eyes, brimming with both distress but relief simultaneously, hook into mine as his fingers run through my hair. I'm lying on a pile of blankets with my head in the boy's lap, another mountain of thick comforters draped on top of me. Sweat beads at my hairline, but even so, I feel as if I've just been pulled out from an ice bath. My skin is clammy and aching; my ankle throbs agonizingly, but not as excruciatingly as the section of my skull that I'd hit.

"Peeta." That's all I can manage at first through cracked, dry lips. My voice is weak and muffled as it rises from my throat, followed by a cough. My throat clears minimally. "You're here. Real or not real?"

He smiles sadly. "Real, Katniss." His fingertips brush through my knotted locks, crimped from the braid that he must've disentangled. We're lying at the foot of the hearth with an impressive fire flickering a few feet away. My blood runs cold, then hot; I feel feverish.

"You're okay now. We found you in the woods. You must've hit your head and fallen—you were barely conscious. Haymitch and I brought you back to my house so you could warm up. We… we got you out of your top layer of clothing since it was so wet and cold—" Even my slightly hazy eyes can pick up on his blush of innocent embarrassment—"and we noticed that your ankle was bruised and swollen, so we wrapped it up. We'll take you to the doctor tomorrow so she can take a look at it and make sure you're okay. You'll probably have one hell of a cold, but I think you'll be alright. At least, Haymitch does."

All through his narration, his voice remains remarkably steady, his tone lulling.

"Where's Haymitch?"

"He stayed for a while but he was getting tired—or just fidgety without a bottle nearby—and it looked like you'd be out cold for a while, so he went back home."

It's just now that the events of today begin to surge back to mind, and I feel my stomach wrenching. It was a nightmare, only there was no writing it off as my imagination. It was every bit as real as the boy sitting with me, caressing my head in his hands as I lay limp before the fire.

Without warning, I hiccup a feeble sob, my eyes glossing over. Peeta is brushing my hair out of my face, sticky with perspiration, as I let myself break down into tears in front of him. I'd been holding up so well for so long, but now there's no stopping the tidal wave that crashes down on me. I've relapsed. My mental state is just as brittle as the first day that I returned to twelve. _Welcome back to square one, Katniss._

As if he can read my thoughts: "Do you want to talk about it?"

I do. I want to tell him everything; I want to free myself of this, letting it burst from my tongue. Peeta promised that he would always be there to help shoulder my burdens, and in this moment, there's nothing more that I want than to let him. But the words are caught somewhere deep in my throat and I just sob harder.

We rest like this for what could be an hour, but I get the impression that Peeta doesn't mind. He was born to care, to nurture—not through actual medicine like my mother and Prim had been, but through personal involvement, through healthy touches, through affection. He repeats _it's okay_ over and over again, as if the more he promises it the more likely I'll believe it.

After quite some time, when my cries have subsided adequately, I sniffle out a meager apology. "I'm sorry, Peeta."

"For what?" His response is so soft that I'm almost convinced I have nothing to be sorry for.

"For not coming back. For worrying you. For making you come find me."

His mouth presses into a hard line as he musters a very forged smile, but the effort says something in and of itself. "It was an accident, Katniss. That merits no apology. You did scare me half to death, but you're here now. You're alive. I'm far more thankful than anything."

If I could take the day back I would in a heartbeat. "I shouldn't have tried to go hunting. I wasn't ready, Peeta." I can feel my throat thickening again, but with his hands still brushing gently through my tangled mess of a mane, I feel my restraints begin to shatter. His eyes extract my reservations, and before I know what's happening, I'm telling him everything.

I tell him about the irritatingly uneventful hours of trying to muster the courage to aim my bow. I'd hold it with hands so shaky that it was impossible to steady the arrow. I would track turkeys through the woods. They hadn't been hunted in so long that they were strutting around the brush fearlessly; I followed them the entire afternoon, promising myself I would shoot, but I couldn't find the composure to do so.

And then, as the light in the sky began to bronze with the signal that the daylight hours were coming to an end, I gritted my teeth and decided to brave it out. With hands much more firm and confident than they'd been the entire day, I raised my bow at a turkey that was waddling some twenty feet in front of me. It was so close, so unsuspecting. Perfect prey.

The bow and the arrow felt extraordinarily natural in my clasp, and innately, my back arched, my shoulders squaring, my breath evening. The string creaked as I pulled the bow back.

But the moment that I released my pull, launching the arrow forward, splitting the air, a horrifying shock rippled through my system. It was as if the cruelty of the action had branded itself into my mind, and suddenly, I was in the war again. Shooting innocent Capitol citizens. Running through darkness, through fire. Mutts were chasing after me, firebombs were raining from the heavens. Finnick, Prim…. I was screaming, crying, and I stumbled backwards, my heel catching on a rock, winding painfully. As I fell, my skull cracked against the tree behind me. And I was out.

Peeta listens very patiently. I can tell he's fighting to keep his composure, but his efforts prove effective; his equanimity keeps my emotions relatively low, calming me just enough so that I don't lose it all over again. My voice is strangled as I choke out the recount of the events but I don't crack completely. However, I'm still crying, my cheeks now wet with saltwater instead of sweat. His thumbs brush away my tears, and for a fleeting moment I wish he would kiss them away like he used to… and then I remind myself that I shouldn't be thinking things like that.

He stays with me as I cry. He doesn't say much, but maybe that's what I need. My mind is already muddled enough without additional commentary. Just his presence alone is adequate in keeping me grounded.

As the glow from the fire dwindles and the sobs that slice through my core begin to subside, I can feel my lids growing heavier and heavier. I'm spent. The gears that propel my thoughts sputter exhaustedly as they slow to a dramatic halt.

If Peeta is tired, he doesn't show any signs. The rough day that has weathered me down to nearly nothing may have frightened him to the point where he is essentially still wired. Surely, he will crash before morning light breaks, but in the meantime he appears to be uncharacteristically manic.

When I release a yawn, I feel him sigh. "You need to get some sleep, Katniss."

I don't even attempt a protest. Even the threat of the myriad of nightmares I predict to visit me tonight cannot outweigh the need for rest.

His weight shifts as he preps himself to rise. Then he stiffens, the hesitation in his movement overtly apparent.

"Do you want me to take you home?"

I doubt I could walk on my ankle, and even if I was brave enough to try, the thought of exposure to the cool air of midnight frightens me. I can't go back there. Even when he offers to carry me, his question entices no response from my lips.

My eyes find his as I try to wordlessly transmit my inquiry. If he doesn't pick it out, I'll not push it, but an indiscernible sense of longing wrenches inside of my chest.

His brow furrows as he swallows, his cheeks flushing.

The second question is much more favorable than the first.

"Do you want to stay the night?"

I smile slightly, and even though apprehension saturates his expression, he reflects a grin. He stands, lifting me up into his arms as I still cling to the multitude of blankets enshrouding my feverish body. I rest my head against his chest as we revolve, my ear just picking out the faint sound of his heart beating through his shirt.

Still as resilient as he was during the games, he hardly struggles to carry me up the stairs. The air cools as we stray from the living room and by the time we've reached his room, the air is frigid and void. But Peeta is here, donating a satisfying element of warmth and reception into the empty space. The only source of light radiates from the moon outside of the open window, casing the entire room in a monochrome, silvery glow. His bed rests near the door, so broad and inviting that I can't imagine it was made for only one person.

He delicately sets me on the side closest to the door, his hands working at the wrinkled blankets swathed around my silhouette. My muscles relax as he tucks me in deliberately, and then suddenly, he's standing off the edge of the bed with an uncomfortably gaping space in between us.

"I'll… I'll see you in the morning, Katniss," he stammers, and in the gloom, I see his hands play nervously at the trim of his shirt.

_What?_ "Where do you think you're going?" Despite the congregation of sheets smothering my body, my bones are still frozen through, and I begin to shiver.

"Um… downstairs?" His tone begs approval as if he's asking for permission.

My trembling grows more violent, my breaths becoming increasingly shallow. I'm iced to my core; my teeth begin to chatter.

I don't want him to leave me here, alone in his bed, freezing underneath a thick coat of blankets. I need to feel him. I need _him, _only him. I need the boy with the bread, the tribute that was willing to lay his life on the line to keep me safe, the friend and protector on the train that held me through every solitary nightmare. This evening was a nightmare in and of itself and there's only one method I'm familiar with that can even remotely mend me.

"Please."

My one-word plea begs a thousand of its kind. It opens invitations of comfort, of concern, of affection. I do not openly ask him to stay, but these six letters leave no doubt or room for misunderstanding. Even through the shadows, the moonlight refracts off of Peeta's cerulean irises, displaying a longing identical to mine.

Peeta slides in his bed beside me, his body splitting the comforters. Without explanation, the innocent hesitation that governs his being has vanished; in its place resides confident, eager determination, gentle but resolute all the same. It's as if my single word has elicited a second side of Peeta, one that is aware of my requests as well as his own hunger. He is not tentative in his mission of providing comfort and reassurance. His hands find my waist immediately and pull my back flat against his chest; his arms, which are as fervent as they are protective, twine themselves around my much smaller silhouette. I feel his breath wash over my neck and ears, heated enough to draw goose bumps all over my skin.

"Katniss, you're freezing," he murmurs through the darkness, his grasp only flexing around me. I feel a strange tingling sensation sear wherever his skin brushes against mine, but it's not entirely unpleasant.

My teeth chatter and I release a stifled chuckle. "I had no idea."

I feel him sigh against me and I know my sarcasm is somewhat consoling to him, suggesting that I'm not irreversibly damaged.

And I'm confident that I'm not. This evening may have bent me far out of shape, but I am not broken. I know that considerable ground will need to be recovered, yet I'm not afraid of the road ahead. As I find myself slowly drifting into a shallow slumber, intertwined with the boy who's been my anchor these past months, my fear begins to melt away. Of four things I am sure: I am damaged, I am wounded, but I am alive, and I am safe.

Those four certainties echo in my head over and over as I gently drift off in Peeta's embrace.


	7. Falling

_After a lot of writing and rewriting, I finally finished this chapter! It's not perfect, but it's certainly better than earlier drafts. Thanks to all who left me feedback and favorited/followed! I feel so lucky to have such incredible viewers. I take every compliment and suggestion to heart, I promise. :)_

_Disclaimer: I own nothing._

I don't know what wakes me, but when I open my eyes, I'm embraced by stagnate morning air. The world around me spins silently, but the absence of action is peaceful; I sigh heavily. For the first time in weeks, my mind feels clear. My muscles relax.

My memory struggles to grasp the dreams that quickly escape me, but there's nothing to hold on to. I didn't have a nightmare last night, remarkably. The feeling of absolute calm as it washes over me is just as pleasurable as it is unfamiliar; I refuse to take this moment for granted, as I know that it won't last very long.

Since last night, Peeta and I have repositioned slightly. Now, he's lying on his back, holding me against his chest; his arms are still enveloped gently around my frame, the warmth from his body winding around me like ribbons. His breath is steady, subdued, indicating his unconsciousness. I peer up at him through the golden glow of dawn, the light from the rising sun glinting off of his blond eyelashes. Everything about him is so soft; his skin, his lips, his faintly tousled hair. Yet there's still a strength in his being through his broad shoulders, his sharp jaw… the way his hands cup my shoulder and the small of my back in his sleep. His chest rises and falls gently and I watch him, illuminated from the sunrise just outside of the open window. I breathe him in, every nerve in my body pacified. I could lie here forever, pretending the world around us wasn't real, forgetting all adversities and obligations.

It's not too long after I wake that I feel Peeta stir against me; my fingers delicately flex at the shirt over his chest as his eyes flutter open. Within a second the haziness in the blue dissipates and his focus contracts on me. His chest swells as he inhales, followed by a quick expiration of air.

"You stayed," he murmurs delicately, a strange concession of relief in his tone.

Did he think I would leave him? As if I had reason to. I had no place to be even if I'd _wanted_ to go, but that was certainly out of the question. Only how I felt in my woods on a temperate afternoon could compare to this. Waking up with Peeta is my oasis in the desert of these past months. Refreshing, redeeming, luxurious.

But for some reason, I can't find the words to tell him this. Instead, in my usual stubborn tone, I toss back, "Good morning to you, too, Peeta."

His responding grin is silken, mollified. "How'd you sleep?"

"Surprisingly well. Not a single nightmare." With one hand, he begins to play with the very ends of my knotted mane; I need a haircut. "How about you?"

One of his arms around me tightens for a brief second. "Better than ever." I can hear it in his voice and see it in the lunar blues of his irises: _since you're here_.

And then his gaze leaves me to take in the final stages of the sunrise; pastel pinks and oranges streak across the pale blue, dusting over snow-blanketed treetops, the intermittent clouds slightly lavender. I know how much he loves sunrises, and maybe that's why he always sleeps with the window open.

We lie there for quite some time in a state of comfortable silence as he absent-mindedly toys with my hair and I rest my cheek against his chest, hearing the reassuring thumping of his heart. This is the Peeta that I grew to become so fond of. It's almost as if, in this moment, the Capitol had never taken him. As if the revolution hadn't occurred. As if both of us were stable, not even cracked to begin with.

Almost.

But as the sky loses its warm tones, being swathed in icy azure, it begins to settle into our bones that time still continues to persist without our consent. He offers to make me breakfast, and I accept as we both unhurriedly slip out from in between the sheets. Peeta gets up first, and the moment that I rise from the blankets, a sharp pain shoots through my ankle, my equilibrium dissolves and my knees buckle. Thankfully, Peeta's arms find me before I drop.

"Are you okay?" The panic in his voice is thick as his grasp tightens.

My eyelids flutter as I try to blink away the spots. "Yeah. Just a little light-headed." _Quite more than a little_.

He helps me back onto the bed. "Maybe I should take you to the doctor. Breakfast can wait."

But I don't want to go to the doctor. I _hate_ medics; the only one I ever trusted was my mother, and subsequently Prim. With all of my experiences with needles and IVs and medicine in the Capitol and District 13, the thought of a hospital makes me shutter.

"I don't want to go."

"Katniss, you have to. You hurt your ankle _and_ your head, not to mention the fact that you could've caught something from being out in the cold for so long."

"I feel fine, Peeta." As if to contradict me, my body expels a cough.

His mouth hardens into a line; his grasp around me won't give. Not that I particularly want it to, but even so. "I'm taking you in, Katniss."

Characteristically, my stubbornness is insurmountable, but there's something in his tone that implies he is _not_ a force to be reckoned with on the issue of my health. I roll my eyes and make it clear as day to him that I am far from pleased with his decision, but I don't protest. This is not a battle I can win.

As I sit on the bed, still recovering from the dizzy spell, Peeta rushes to throw a clean change of close on, grabbing a t-shirt and some sweatpants for me to wear. As I slip them on, I can see in the way that he stifles a smile that he's more than proud to see me in his clothes, but I fake oblivion.

And then he inhales. "I can carry you."

Now _that_ is something I won't stand for. I may have a tweaked ankle and one hell of a bump on my cranium, but if I can manage to get out of two arenas alive then it surely shouldn't be beyond me to walk a block or two.

"Not a chance."

Like me, Peeta is well-versed in knowing when to pick his battles and he relinquishes. With just one hand around my waist for minimal support, he helps me stand. This time, the faintness passes within a few seconds. He clutches me as I hobble down the stairs and out the door—by the time we're already halfway down the street, I've realized it would have been exponentially simpler for him just to carry me like he suggested. But I'm not about to admit that.

The clinic is nested in a quaint, two-story building at the edge of the market. At this time of morning, enough people are flocking through the street that I don't go unnoticed. A few offer to help me, and with gentle appreciation from Peeta, he assures them that he has it under control. I produce nothing more than a weak smile.

By the time we reach the office, my exasperation has climbed sharply.

"Everyone in this damn district can't keep to themselves, can they?" I mutter crossly. Peeta tugs the heavy metal door open with is free hand and the two of us limp in.

"They just care about you, Katniss."

"Why don't they go invest their time into someone a little bit more worthwhile?"

Peeta shakes his head, chuckling slightly at my overt aggravation. He helps me into one of three chairs in the petite waiting room which is buzzing with silence in its vacancy. My nose crinkles at the overbearing scent of antiseptic and bleach. My mind flies back to hospital beds, to treatment, to pills, and I can feel my throat constricting. My fingers clutch at the plastic armrest of my chair, knuckles whitening.

At my side, I can tell Peeta can sense my rising stress as he lays a palm over the back of my hand. "It's okay. We'll be out of here before you know it."

I'm about to open my mouth to complain once again when the door by the reception table cracks open, issuing a sylphlike woman in black trousers and a white lab coat. She seems slightly taken aback once she acknowledges us and then immediately regains her composure.

"Hi! How can I help you?"

I can feel my frustration rising as she steps over to us. She seems pretty damn cheerful for someone who's around injuries and disease all day. Nevertheless, her brown eyes reflect the genuine smile that pulls at her lips.

Peeta rises to shake her hand, his expression warm and good-natured. "I'm Peeta Mellark, and this is Katniss." He motions to me and I muster a very clearly forced smile.

She reaches her hand down to me, and reluctantly, I take it in my own.

"I know who you two are," she laughs blithely. "I'm Mae. How can I be of service?"

After a few moments of silence I realize that Peeta is watching me, waiting for _me_ to speak for myself.

I clear my throat, but even afterwards my voice is still a low grumble. "I fell yesterday. I… uh… lost my balance." Mae just blinks unsuspectingly. "I hit my head and I think I may have twisted my ankle."

Without further explanation, Mae leads the two of us past her reception desk and through the door she emerged from. The hallway behind the waiting room is painted in muted yellows, radiating a newfound warmth. I feel the tension in my muscles dispel partially.

She helps us into a room and lets Peeta boost me up onto the examination table. Her fingers tuck her glasses onto the bridge of her nose as she swipes the clipboard from a pocket in the door. Peeta remains standing beside the bed, hand delicately resting on the small of my back—he may not know it, but just his touch alone soothes me substantially. Despite my hatred of being around doctors, having someone here watching out for me calms me just enough.

Mae issues the routine questions, her voice remaining at a musical lull. Her professionalism is unquestionable, but the more she speaks, the less resentful of her I become. Clearly, she's incredibly clever as well as kind, and as she examines my skull, my pupils, and my still swollen ankle, I begin to wonder why I begrudged her in the first place.

She rewinds the wrap around my bruised foot and assures me that it's not broken, just slightly sprained. She also relays that I don't have a concussion and appear to be relatively healthy. However, she prescribes a week of rest, telling me to stay off the ankle and move with caution.

"Is that it?"

"That's it, Ms. Everdeen. Just take good care of yourself for the next week and you should be back up to speed in no time."

I nod, my spirits significantly lighter than the moment I walked in. Maybe it's because the thick stench of bleach has become less noticeable.

Peeta thanks her for me and we're off within the minute; he helps me hobble hopelessly back through the market, down the dirt pathway dusted in patches of snow. His hand does not leave my waist as it clutches at the fabric of my shirt—his shirt, technically—holding my body beside him.

"That wasn't so bad, now was it?" he teases good-naturedly.

I grumble instinctively but don't disagree. By now, my ankle is throbbing uncontrollably from every accidental step, every ounce of unintended pressure. "The worst is yet to come."

"What do you mean by that?"

Had he been absent for the entire appointment? "I've basically been put on bed rest for the upcoming week!" If there is one thing that Katniss Everdeen is not equipped to handle, it is undoubtedly being babied; and that's exactly what bed rest calls for. Even if I manage to hop around the house, spending time in the great outdoors is exceedingly far out of the question. This means I will be bound to my home for a week, unable to take care of myself. Although I certainly don't mind having Peeta around, he already pampers me enough as is. I'm sure he would jump at the opportunity to take care of me for several days on end, but I can't ask him to do that. Not after all he's done for me already.

Suddenly, I feel his nose affectionately nuzzling at the side of my cheek by my ear; mechanically, I flinch at the touch as he whispers, "Poor Katniss. Whatever shall she do?"

Before mulling it over, my hand stiffens at my side in preparation to smack him for the comment. But once he expels a delicate chuckle that quickly shadows his remark, I feel the tension release; I have no need to be aggressive with Peeta. As I'm continually reminded, every move he makes is in good faith; his innocuous banter is clearly only intended to lighten the mood rather than push my buttons.

For the most part, at least.

"Well," I reply markedly bluntly. "I could always starve to death in my own room or go stir-crazy from being away from my woods so long. See whatever happens first."

Even though my remark is particularly snide, he doesn't seem to let it phase him. "I can't do much about the second part, but I took a vow the day I adopted you from Greasy Sae's care: I will not let you starve."

"Peeta, I'm not going to ask you to take care of me…"

"And you don't have to ask." His returning grin is brilliant in its delight; why he seems to be more than thrilled over the situation is beyond me, but I don't try and dwell on it too long.

By this point, the two of us have stumbled under the shadow of the metal arch that leads into the Victor's Village. We're greeted with a frigid, arctic chill of wind and I feel my teeth begin to chatter.

Peeta ushers me back inside his house, helping me onto the sofa. The air inside is beginning to cool off, and even though it's just before noon, Peeta disappears to the backyard, returning moments later with firewood. I let myself settle in on the couch as I watch him light a fire, the cushions tailoring to my contours. Within moments, a flame burns in the hearth, smothering the room with inviting warmth. Even though both Peeta and I have houses with similar blueprints, there's something about his place that's much more welcoming than mine. Maybe it's because I didn't always live alone in mine—before the war, before the Quarter Quell, my mother and Prim lodged here, too. Now, the room that belonged to my mother remains cold and dusty; the one that Prim used to stay in hasn't even been unlocked. It's as if large sectors of my house are branded as prohibited, and most mornings my house doesn't feel like a home.

Something about Peeta's is far different. It may be because I've _never_ been alone in his. I recognize that he implicitly appreciates the company just as much as I do and he constantly works at pleasing me whenever I'm visiting. No matter the reason, as I limply lounge on the sofa while Peeta tends to the fire, I get a strange, unidentifiable feeling that _this_ is the place where I belong.

Of course, the brief moment of meditation is shattered by the sound of the door swinging open. No knock, as should be expected.

"Good morning, Haymitch," I greet squarely.

He staggers a bit, sobriety in question, but still manages his typical sarcastic smile. "Nice to see you, sweetheart. How's the head?"

It's Peeta who responds for me as he stands, turning away from the fireplace. "No concussion. But she's got a bit of a sprain."

I lift my foot from the sofa to exhibit my injury. It's still swathed in thick gauze, but in a far more skillful manner than last night. The way Mae wraps wounds is bizarrely artistic.

I expect Haymitch to at least circuitously probe at an account of last night, but he seems to comprehend that it's not something I'm willing to explain. Instead, he makes himself comfortable in an armchair across from the sofa; Peeta sits down at my feet, taking them into his lap before removing my shoes and absent-mindedly rubbing the soles. I feel my system shudder with satisfaction and have to fight to compose myself.

Haymitch makes fairly lopsided conversation with us for a few moments, still as acidic in his jabs as ever, but familiar all the same. It's not long before the fidgetiness in his movements begins to express itself; his hands tremble slightly, he swallows constantly, his eyes darting anxiously. Sobriety has surely never favored Haymitch. He bids us farewell for the afternoon, complacent but quick, and then it's just the two of us again.

We retreat to typical hobbies—me to my writing, Peeta to his painting. I'm scripting a brief bio on Madge as he alights on his stool, his wrists rhythmically working away in graceful brush strokes. Peeta is stationed in the light of the open window, the drawn drapes allowing surges of sunbeams to coat him in their luminescence. The golden rays underscore his features. His eyelashes appear particularly blonde like his tousled curls, and for a brief moment I refuse to believe that he's anything less than celestial. But then I remember I shouldn't be looking at him like that.

When the light of day begins to diminish, he retreats to the kitchen to start dinner preparations. Although I can't cook to save my life, I keep him company in the kitchen, propped up on the counter as he works around me. We maintain decent conversation as he moves on autopilot; baking is so customary to Peeta that he doesn't have to think while doing it, so dialog bounces back-and-forth between us, sharp and uninterrupted. At one point, he dips a finger in a vat of batter, lifting it up to my lips to taste it. When I open my mouth to draw it in, he surprises me by instead dabbing the tip of my nose with it. Although my face grows red instantaneously and I forge irritation at his laughter, it isn't long before I break down into giggles as well.

After dinner, Peeta feeds the fire and the two of us curl up at the foot of the hearth for the evening. I sit upright, injured ankle elevated on a pillow, Peeta's head resting in my lap. My fingers sweep through his golden curls and his eyes close, breaths steadying, a subtle grin whispering over his lips.

Once the fire begins to wane, we let it run its course. My consciousness is fading now, my thoughts hazy. Peeta lifts me to carry me up the stairs; I don't protest, and I let him lay my wearied body onto the bed and tuck me underneath the thick sea of blankets. In just a few moments, I feel his warm figure snuggling up against my back, his face burrowing in the hair by my ear. My expended mind attempts to wrap itself around how things came to be this way—how I ended up in Peeta's home, in his bed, in his arms—but momentarily afterwards I give up and just accept the situation as it is. At the moment, I am happy. A feeling as fleeting as that should be enjoyed rather than dissected.

In the morning, I awake to bundles of sheets in my arms and alarmingly empty space. I am alone.

I jerk around wildly, expecting to find Peeta shuffling through drawers in his dresser or sitting by the window. But the room is vacant. A chill passes through my body.

"Peeta?" I call out, panic settling in my core. I jolt upright.

I'm about to throw myself out of bed, ignoring my bad ankle, when the bedroom door swings open. In walks Peeta with a tray situated in his palms.

Relief floods my system.

"Good morning," he greets warmly, setting the platter on the empty cavity in the mattress at my side. I eye it carefully—oatmeal, apple slices with brown sugar, scrambled eggs.

"Peeta, you didn't have to…" I feel my cheeks flushing violently and I run my hands through my dark locks, pushing them out of my face.

He shrugs as if the act was trifling. "It's not like I had anything more important to do."

As that statement settles in my core, it stimulates a hollow ache. It would be ignorant to deny the fact that Peeta's days are filled with particularly mundane tasks that are used principally to pass the time when I'm not around. I'm really all he has, aren't I? Even after these past few months? Sure, the people in town all admire and think the world of him, but I'm the only person besides Haymitch that he habitually engages with. And because Haymitch is reliant on nothing unless it directly links him with booze, the only individual who needs Peeta in trade like he needs them is… me. My days are purposeless and monotonous without him, much like his are without me. He brings excitement to the table and drive to get up in the mornings, and I can't help but assume he views me in the same way.

The following week passes in a rather relaxing rhythm. Breakfasts in bed, lunches on the patio out back, mid-mornings and afternoons chock-full of painting, of writing, of talking about anything and everything. Evenings by the fire. Nights curled up in bed, tailoring to each other's' forms, adapting even breathing patterns and concordant heartbeats. It's during these routines that I think about him, and me, and what we are.

Peeta and I have such an odd relationship. I, Katniss Everdeen, am the stubborn ringleader with persistently fluctuating emotions. And he, Peeta Mellark is the supportive, compassionate caregiver with undying patience and inherent charisma. I am aggressive, Peeta is passive. He wants to build things up and mend fissures, and I destroy everything in my path. Yet somehow, miraculously, we coexist. He is my dandelion in the spring; he offsets my demolition with his inherent promise of restoration. He counters me, he balances me, he ties up all of my loose ends.

And that is why, while the two of us are curled up together one night, I understand.

Peeta is arched into my back, knees tucked behind mine, arms twined around my silhouette. I hear him sigh my name almost inaudibly, followed by a low but clear, "Good night, beautiful."

And maybe it's the additional label that finally pushes me to realization. Maybe it's the shiver that ripples down my spine to the very tips of my toes, warming my whole body. Maybe it's the goose bumps that ensue.

No matter the cause, the sudden recognition triggers the stiffening of my muscles, my breath catching somewhere in the bed of my lungs.

I understand now. Everything suddenly makes sense.

I'm falling for Peeta Mellark.

* * *

For the first time since sleeping with Peeta, I have nightmares.

They're far from realistic, all flickering through my mind as eruptions of color and sound. I see Peeta with me in the cave, bleeding out from his stab wound. I see him trying to strangle me. I see him pleading for us to kill him during the revolution. I see him screaming, his fingers pulling at his skin; this is the only one that is clearly unreal, yet it takes on the most terrifying quality of all. Peeta thrashes in my arms, overcome by one of his hallucinations. His nails dig into his flesh, only now he's ripping it off of his bones, tearing himself apart at the seams—literally. I try to stop him but my strength can't compare. Peeta is gone. In his place, a violent, self-destructive mutt has surfaced. This is not the boy with the bread, not the victor, not my dandelion.

I jolt awake to my own screaming, writhing in between the sheets. Something is restraining me, holding me, only causing me to flail harder. _"Peeta!"_ I cry his name, into the darkness, into the humid air inundated with sweat.

_Katniss. It's okay. I'm here._ A voice whispers in my ear, but it sounds almost as if it resonates from behind a wall; it's muffled, distant, painfully out-of-reach. _You're not alone. I'm here, Katniss. It's okay._

I cry out his name again.

And then I realize that my restraints are not fetters. Peeta's arms hold me back, hold me to him, warming me, fingers stroking through my hair in soothing movements.

My thrashing has calmed, my screams turning into pathetic whimpers. The scent of saltwater from my face cloaks the room and I crumple into Peeta's grasp, my front turning into him and then coiling up feebly. I tremble as he holds me, murmuring assurances in my ear, rubbing circles on my back, over my shoulders.

He does not ask once about the nightmare as we lie there, shrouded in dampened sheets. I'm thankful he doesn't. I don't have the heart to explain.

We remain in silence, intertwined, until dawn breaks from outside Peeta's open window. Neither of us have slept since we were awoken by my nightmare and the part of me that isn't completely overwhelmed by thought feels guilty for keeping him awake. But I say nothing.

When Peeta slips out to go prepare breakfast, I feel regrettably relieved that he's gone. I can't think in his presence—not when he's unceasingly reminding me through his gentle, affectionate demeanor of why all of this is happening.

I can't fall for him. I can't love Peeta; I simply won't assent to myself reaching that point. The nightmare only sustained my theory: Everything I love slips from my grasp. My father. Prim. Even Gale, even Cinna. All of them, now dead, or dead to me. I can't allow that to happen to the one thing in this life that I have left. The only reason that I've advanced this far in the right direction is because of his stabilizing companionship; I can't afford loss of that because I selfishly crave something more. I can't afford to feel that ache that is all too familiar. The thought of it paralyzes me with terror.

What's even more frightening than the notion of losing him is the notion of loving him so unconditionally. Such wholehearted affection is detrimental, unpredictable, agonizing. It's one of the most destructive forces I've come to face and has never shown me justice. Love is weakness that I cannot cope with. I already have faulty armor; letting my guard down entirely, even for someone that I trust with my life, is not something I'm equipped to handle. I've built up too many walls to allow someone to waltz in like that and annihilate them.

But the gravest fear of all: I know, deep down, that I _want_ to love Peeta. What I felt in my chest on the beach in the Quarter Quell, that unrelenting spreading of warmth… I want that again. I want to familiarize myself with that foreign but satisfying sensation once more. And there is no other soul on this planet that could provide that unmitigated pleasure like Peeta could. I can't imagine anyone else in his place.

But I can't love him. I can't risk all that I have for something unnecessary and so entirely devastating.

When I hear his feet pattering up the steps, I roll on my side, back to the door, and feign unconsciousness. The pit of my stomach feels hollow as I do so, but I can't bring myself to face my problems. Not yet.

I hear his tongue roll around my name as he calls it out, delicate as ever, to probe my slumber. After a moment, he must conclude that I've drifted off, because the sound of his footsteps fades.

My throat feels thick; my eyes sting. Every inch of my body aches to call Peeta back, but my mind scolds it. _You shouldn't want that, Katniss._

I'm unsure of whether or not I drift off; all I know is that time elapses excruciatingly slowly as I listen for Peeta's movements downstairs. Clamor in the kitchen, passage in the lounge. He's certainly keeping himself busy.

Around noon, Peeta comes back and crawls underneath the comforter with me. His arms find my waist, pulling me in like a drowning sailor lost at sea. Instead of habitually immersing myself in his warmth, I feel my entire body go rigid at his grasp.

He senses my aloofness immediately.

"What's wrong?"

His unsuspecting innocence releases a painful twinge in my chest, but I refuse to let it show. "Just tired." He merits more of a response than that, but for now, it's all I can muster without breaking down.

His nose brushes against my ear, and within seconds my mind has converted to a battlefield. I want to let him in—and then, a moment later, I want to find myself as far away from him as possible.

Maybe distance is what I need.

"My ankle's been better. Maybe I should go home."

It's only takes an instant for Peeta's breath to catch somewhere in his ribs, and I can hear the abrupt devastation expand in his consequent sigh. But I refuse to look up at him, for I know that his blue eyes will hook me in with their piteous combination of shock and dejection, and within moments my resolve will crumble. I've recognized that I've crossed the line when it comes to getting close to him; now I need to redefine boundaries even though I know it will be no easy feat.

"Oh." That's all he manages. I know what he wants to say: _I thought you would stay_. Up until this morning, I thought I would, too. But then I remembered that I need to deem him as solely a friend, not a lover. And after sleeping together for almost a week, I'd say we got pretty damn close to the latter.

I sigh. "I'm sorry." Although it surely sounds like I don't mean it.

The hesitation in his breath drags me in.

"Is it… is it something I did?"

His question slams into me like a concrete slab, shattering me into a thousand tiny pieces. I feel myself cringe automatically. How am I supposed to tell him that he's done absolutely nothing wrong? If anything, it's _because_ he's been so unfalteringly benevolent that I've arrived at this conclusion. Peeta has slowly but definitively morphed from the Capitol-crafted mutt back into the boy that threw me the bread when we were both children, to the man who came and held me every night on the train to try and erase my nightmares. I don't know how I ever thought that he couldn't be recovered. This Peeta with me has resurfaced like he'd never left, the only difference being his intermittent hallucinations and attentive caution.

And that's part of why I'm falling for him. He is the only piece of home—my old home—that I have left. My mother is too far out of reach, and even if Gale were to come back, he'd be angry, detached, with the resolve of a Capitol citizen much more than the boy who used to accompany me in the woods. My father is dead. Prim is dead. Every person who I grew up beside is gone; Peeta is all that remains to remind me that company did exist, and that our lives weren't always so consumed with isolation. And he reminds me of this every hour of every day, with his undying generosity, resolute selflessness, and steadfast compassion.

All I say is, "No, you've done nothing."

I can tell by his wounded rigidness that he doesn't believe me. But he knows there's nothing he can do—he can't entice answers from me when I've made my mind up to not vocalize them. So he helps me get out of bed, and even though my ankle aches slightly, I don't let my composure falter. He keeps a hand pressed delicately against the small of my back for support but doesn't touch me otherwise; and then we're at the door, and I'm slipping into my coat and my hunting boots. He stands there, too afraid to look at me, his entire confidence deflated. I hate that I'm doing this to him… and then I remember that I can't love him. I won't allow myself to sympathize so effusively.

He bids me goodbye and I toss it back at him, my tone as cold as the air behind the door. I don't hug him like usual when I go.

Upon my entrance, my own house is biting in its pale gloom. The air is stagnant, uninviting. I collapse onto the sofa to give my ankle a break, reminding myself over and over again that this _is_ my home, even though it feels as if no one's lived in it for centuries.

I try and carry out daily actions to pass the time, although I don't exactly know what I'm supposed to do now. I dust things off, clean surfaces. In attempt to make this place seem more welcoming and lived-in, I light a fire, but all it does is remind me of beside how many fires I curled up with Peeta. It makes my forced warmth seem phony.

When dinnertime comes, Peeta shows up at my door and reminds me that he's supposed to feed me. By this point, I could probably throw something half-decent together to at least tide me over until the morning, but I don't protest. I have to remind myself that Peeta is my _friend_, not a completely distant enemy. I still need his care and I assume he at least partially needs mine for reassurance and balance.

And this is how the remainder of the week carries out.

In the mornings, I wake up to Peeta throwing breakfast together downstairs, and we eat collectively in silence with the occasional half-hearted question as small talk. He leaves soon after and I make myself busy around the home, infrequently going out to my woods to sit and think about how much I despise what our relationship has reduced to. But I don't do this often; the less I think, the better. At least, suppressing my thoughts seems to hurt less. For dinner, I return and reside in the dining room as I hear him working away in the kitchen, his actions concise and quick. Again, we'll eat together, but our conversations here are just as fragmented as in the morning. He parts momentarily after, and I'm left alone, as isolated as ever.

I wake up numerous times a night to violent nightmares, screaming and crying into the vacant darkness. I cry for Peeta and ache for his presence. It feels as if now we're not even friends. My condition is worsening, and I can see that his is as well; when he visits, dark shadows circle under tired eyes, hair ruffled, smile continually absent. But he doesn't plead for reconciliation, although I can see it in the way he looks at me when he does. I'm sure my eyes say the same. I want him back like he used to be, so that he can heal me in his hold. But I can't say anything. I can't _do_ anything. I thought that by now, my affection for him would subside as a result the distance that I've enacted, but if anything it's rooted inside of me and sprouted a newfound resentment for my own actions and an even more unwavering longing. I can't win.

One evening, after he's already parted for the night, I feel a pull at every muscle in my body. I need to see him. I need to do _something_, execute any form of attempt to remind him that while I can't love him, I still need his company. I need _him_.

I trudge through newly-formed drifts of snow through the darkness, down the path and up the porch to his door. I knock twice, and when he doesn't respond, I jiggle at the knob to find the door unlocked. I let myself in.

Immediately after entrance, I see him, and my blood runs cold.

Peeta sits by the unlit fireplace, knees tucked into his chest, trembling very slightly. I can see it in the way that his muscles are stiffened and his breaths are shallow. His knuckles are taut and white as his arms wrap around himself, as if to hold him in one piece.

He's having one of his episodes.

Without thinking, I rush over to him, unafraid of what he'll do to me and much more concerned with what he'll do to himself. A brief image of the dream from a week ago, the dream that set this situation in motion, flashes through my head. I can't let anything like that happen to him. I press a palm onto his back, and he whimpers slightly, but doesn't relax.

"Peeta, it's okay. It's okay. I'm here."

"You want me to die," he murmurs back, eyes clenched shut, face twisted in agony.

I shake my head even though I know he can't see me. "No, Peeta. Not real. Not real."

"You don't want me anymore." His voice is softer this time, more pained. It pierces me right to my core.

I've been doing this to him, haven't I? My coolness towards him hasn't just been hurting me, but Peeta as well. He looks absolutely shattered in his seclusion, his skin pale, his gaze flat and vacuous. It's all because of my decision to avoid him.

"Peeta, I want you. I need you. Please, it's not real. It's not real, Peeta. I do want you."

Still, his body remains frigid.

"You don't love me."

I feel the pit of my stomach drop. What am I supposed to tell him? I can't tell him that I do because that would imply so much more… but I can't tell him that I don't, because it would be a lie.

I feel a hunger grip the inside of my chest, an intense ache spreading through my limbs. I don't think about what I'm doing as I move. Without consideration, my hands lift to his cheeks, forcing it towards me.

"Peeta." My tongue very gently forms around his name, and before I realize what I'm about to do, I lean in and press my lips impulsively into his.


	8. Vulnerability

_With a concert and finals coming up this week, I probably won't be getting around to writing much, so I thought I'd just put out this short chapter. Sorry it's not much, but at least it resolves the partial cliffhanger. Please leave a review if you have any feedback. :)_

_Disclaimer: I own nothing._

Few things come to mind, but among them are exclamations of shock. _What are you doing?_ _Why are you kissing Peeta?_ But I can't stop now.

At first, he is explicitly unresponsive. One of my hands, which cups around his jaw, skims over the skin of his neck, around him, in between his shoulders. His entire body is rigid in my grasp, but I don't release.

With my other hand, my fingers slip backwards to his blonde curls, holding his face to mine. I maneuver myself onto his lap. His scent envelops me, sweet and alluring, making my skin go numb. Underneath my touch, his muscles begin to relax, just as planned. I won't let go until he's safe, landed back in reality.

It doesn't take long before he goes limp in my arms. After a few moments, I pull back, forehead pressing against his. My eyes open to see that his are still closed. He inhales slowly, deliberately, the color returning to his pale, tired cheeks as he slowly resurfaces from his delirium.

And then his eyelashes flutter, his lids lifting so that the oceans in his eyes wash over mine. He doesn't smile, but there's some inherent calm locked in his gaze.

"Hey," I gasp, smiling guiltily.

His only movements come from the marginal rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, staring up at me with an expression I can hardly read. Is he thankful that I'm here? Is he angry? Surely, he must at least be a bit surprised to snap out of one of his hallucinations to find a girl straddling him on his lap.

The hand that parts through his hair draws back, fingertips delineating his jawline. I feel myself becoming enchanted with the satiny feel of his skin; his eyes flutter closed for just a moment as he inhales extensively, his lips so close to mine that I can almost taste him.

I elect not to consider what I'm doing here, wrapped around Peeta like a spool of thread. I know that if I start dissecting this moment in my head, my mind will once again become a battleground for my stubbornness and compassion to duke it out. The only thing I let myself acknowledge is that I _like_ it here, with Peeta, feeling his heartbeat against my ribs.

Finally, I hear him speak.

"Why are you here?"

Despite the lack of acidity in his tone, I still feel myself flinch. But I swallow hard and spit out what I've been feeling in my bones for this entire week.

"I missed you, Peeta."

"So you just traipse right in and kiss me?" Now, the tartness that I'd originally expected begins to filtrate in his words. He's looking up at me, his eyes filled with both resentment and agony as they glaze over with a film of liquid.

Oh god, Peeta. Please don't cry.

"You were… you were having one of your hallucinations… I needed to do something—"

"And you thought that playing with me was a good solution?" he interrupts quietly, but this time, all semblance of resentment has dissolved. "I feel like—it feels like we're back in the games. Back to where you're only pretending to want me." The pain drags in his voice so excruciatingly that I want to curl up into a ball and admit all blame.

My eyes fall. "I came over because I wanted to see you, and I walked in on you having an episode. I didn't know what to do. I just hated seeing you like that, and I wasn't thinking. I didn't do it to confuse you or to use you. I just… I don't know, Peeta. It was an impulse."

His palms slide up to his face, covering his eyes in an exasperated fashion. And then his voice emerges from behind them, muffled but still clear. "I thought you hated me, Katniss."

"I could never hate you."

"Then why did you ignore me for a week? You literally just slipped out one morning, something _obviously_ bothering you, but you wouldn't tell me what it was or why this was happening or _anything_. It's been tearing me apart, Katniss… I've been having these episodes every day, and they're only getting worse. I thought that you wanted to never see me again, and that I did something to hurt you…"

He's crumbling in front of me, his resolve dissembling; it cuts deep to now realize that he's been like this all week, and this is the first time he's taken off his stony façade for a moment to let me see it. I can't believe he's been relapsing, regressing, all because of my selfish precautions. I'm a monster for doing this to him.

I take his face in my hands again, tilting his chin up toward me. His gaze meets mine in an instant, his brow furrowed.

"Peeta, I'm so sorry. I never meant to hurt you like this."

"Then what did you _mean_ to do?"

I open my mouth to justify my actions, but as the blood flushes to my cheeks, I remember that an explanation would result in nothing less than disaster. I can't tell him that I backed off because I was afraid of loving him, of allowing myself to be so vulnerable to someone else. That will only hurt him more. Knowing Peeta, even if he doesn't love me, he's not too far off. It would crush him to know that I could potentially have feelings like that for him but actively stifle them.

"I can't… I can't tell you, Peeta."

His blue eyes deepen as he swallows. "If I did something to hurt you, Katniss—"

"You did nothing. I told you that."

"And I'm supposed to believe it? I mean, what else could have caused you to just walk out on me like that? And to avoid me for a whole damn week?"

My body tenses. I feel something boiling inside of me, heat bubbling deep in my core. I feel the answer surging behind my clenched lips, and I ache to tell him, to tell him everything…

"I was afraid."

"Afraid of what?" His voice is sharp, cutting, slashing away at my walls. I can't hold it in any longer.

My mouth opens, and I know the words are about to spill out without restraint. I do the only thing in my power that I can think to obstruct them.

For the second time tonight, I lean into him, pressing into his warm lips. His taste rolls through my system, filling me up with an unquenchable burning.

It takes only seconds for him to break away.

"God dammit Katniss, stop avoiding my question!" he laughs humorlessly, the irritation rising in his tone. Nevertheless, his cheeks are flushed from the kiss.

"I can't tell you. I don't want to hurt you."

"If it's something that I did, it can't hurt me any more than it already has."

Why does he so insistently believe that it was his fault? "You did _nothing_!"

"Then what was it? What were you afraid of?"

I'm at a loss. My entire body feels hot, aggravated, cornered. I can't kiss my way out of this one.

My eyes squeeze shut and I feel the words fizzing up in my throat, burning in their ascent. My breath catches.

I'm trapped.

As if it's overworked, my mind flickers off so that my head is blank and I can't think of what to do next. My sense of reason has shattered, and before I know what I'm doing, my lips part. Air rushes in, then out.

"I'm afraid of falling in love with you, Peeta."

A piercing silence ensues. _I can't believe I just said that_. My chest falls in defeat and I feel my throat constricting, but I do nothing. I can't open my eyes, too afraid to catch his gaze and see the expression on his face. There's a million different things that could greet me if I choose to look at him. Anger, hurt, resentment, bewilderment, disbelief. I know that I won't be able to stomach any of them.

This action in and of itself has left me utterly and irreversibly exposed. I feel emotionally naked, sitting before him, wide-open like a book. I've always necessitated the power in the situation; without it, I am empty, I am vulnerable, and I am nothing. But now that I've let the confession so irresponsibly slip from my mouth, Peeta suddenly has all the power. Whatever he says or does next can shatter me.

Everything is out of my hands, and the notion of that uncomfortably jets through my bones.

But he doesn't speak. I remain motionless in my loss, eyes squeezed shut, waiting for him to respond. By the way that my cheeks flame with heat, "Girl on Fire" seems like an awful understatement.

I am defeated.

I don't know exactly what I am expecting from Peeta, but certainly, it's not the action that ensues.

Very gently, as if I'm made of fragile glass, Peeta's hands glide over my waist, sending tremors up and down my spine. My eyes compulsorily flutter open to be greeted with an expression not of shock, but of careful consideration and unadulterated ardor. I see liquid coating his gaze; for the first time in a week, I watch as he smiles at me.

"So that's why you ran out on me?" he laughs, sniffling.

His grin is contagious, and I find one just like his spreading over my dry lips. But unlike him, the despondency doesn't relinquish from my features. Despite his favorable reaction, I still feel vulnerable. And that is not a feeling I'm designed to cope with.

"Peeta… please don't let this change anything," I beg quietly. "I need you in the way that you've been there for me these past few months. The only reason I saw any improvement in myself was because of you… but I'm not ready to let anyone in any farther yet. Not _that_ deeply."

"I understand," he whispers, his tone gentle and soothing. With one palm still cupped around my waist, he lifts the other to my cheek, stroking just under my lids with his thumb. I don't realize until he wipes away something wet that I've been crying. "If you promise not to leave me hanging like that again, I swear I will do everything in my power to be exactly what you need and nothing more." And then he chuckles musically. "I will cook for you, paint with you, and hold you when you're cold or having nightmares, but I will keep my distance if you feel pressured or suffocated or anything. Just keep me posted, okay?"

My head bounces in a fervent nod, and I sniffle again. Haymitch has always been right in his stance that I don't even come close to deserving Peeta; he is too gentle, too kind, too accepting for someone as stubborn and wary as I am. The only way I can even begin to repay him is to let my guard down in moments like these when he deserves the truth and nothing less.

Half of me aches to kiss him again, finding comfort in his lips with the hope that he'll finally reciprocate that yearning. The other half of me, which is still afraid of letting him in more than he already is, wins this battle. But when his arms wind around me, pulling me to him, I don't resist. His cheek buries in my neck, his breath hot against my collar. I clench him to me for dear life, one hand on his back, the other tangling in his golden hair.

When it's time for me to go back home, Peeta asks me to stay. I'm thankful that he does—I've been having nightmares every night in his absence. I'm on the verge of breaking as is. He leads me upstairs and opens the door to his room for me, fingers delicately brushing over my arm. As I crawl underneath his blankets, a soothing warmth settles in my veins as I feel much more at home than I have in days. Peeta departs for a brief moment to go take a quick shower, first donating a pair of sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt for me to sleep in. When he's gone, I slip into his clothes, inhaling the scent that laces around me. They smell like him.

The sound of running water sooths me as I curl up in his bed, blankets molding to my silhouette. I begin to drift off.

Several minutes later, after the water has been shut off, I feel the mattress shift with the addition of extra weight. He doesn't pull me in immediately like he had before, and I assume it's because he doesn't want to cross any boundaries. He lays on his back, hands behind his damp hair, patient and relaxed.

It is me who closes the distance between us. I edge up to his side, resting my cheek on his chest, wrapping my arms around his ribs. In return, I feel a hand press into my back delicately to hold my body against his. I listen carefully to his heartbeat as it speeds marginally, a sigh expelling from his lips.

I'm about to drift off when I hear quiet words stir off the tip of his tongue. "You're back for good. Real or not real?"

Consideration unnecessary, I respond with resolute confidence.

"Real."


	9. With Gentility and Grace

_I received some concerned comments/messages regarding the "real/not real" line in my last chapter over whether or not that coincided with the last line before the epilogue in Mockingjay. (The one that goes something like "__So after, when he whispers, 'You love me: Real or not real?' I whisper, "Real.'") __If you were worried, don't be! I'm trying to expand on the book, not alter it—so basically, I'm trying to include a bunch of different "real/not real" conversations because I know how important that is in helping Peeta trust Katniss again. Also, I thought that ending the last chapter with that scenario would be a good way to resolve things after I left you guys on a cliffhanger the chapter before, but I assure you all that this isn't anywhere near the end of it! That line still has yet to make an appearance. :)_

_Sorry if none of that made sense, I'm writing this at 1:09 A.M. on finals week and I'm awfully exhausted but really eager to pump out this chapter as soon as possible! I'm so grateful for all of the positive feedback that I've received and the last thing I would want to do is let you down by not posting for a while._

_And now, I also apologize for the rant! Hopefully I can make up for it by writing this chapter from Peeta's perspective? Maybe? Let me know what you think!_

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After five months of nightmares, of sporadic cold-shoulders, of fleeting feelings alternating between need and fear, I finally feel as if things are beginning to fall back together. Of course, the peace of mind that's been attained is fairly relative; compared to where we were five months ago, I should say, she and I are leaps and bounds better. Happier. More whole. Nevertheless, Katniss is like a broken mirror in the sense where you can always shove the pieces back into their original form, but the cracks will permanently be there to distort. These are her scars. She and I have plenty where those come from.

But she's still healing. Every day, she's dissembling her walls brick by brick to let me in. At first, she just allows me to hold her every night—although, to be fair, I needed it, too. Having me with her fends off the worst of her nightmares, and she has an equal effect on me. When I have my episodes now, she's there to comfort me. She's learned that singing to me helps ground me more peacefully, as her charming bird-like songs innately pacify me, and I've learned that holding her tightly and brushing her hair from her face when she awakes from agonizing nightmares is what she needs to achieve her own sense of calm. We both need each other in these moments—she's there to comfort me with her angelic voice, and I'm there to comfort her with my arms. The one week that she'd kept her distance from me, I'd had hallucinations at least three times a day because of her absence and the consequent stress; I'd come back down to reality to find broken vases, capsized chairs, and I couldn't remember a second of what had happened. Of course, I still haven't told her that. When she came back, I let her know that my episodes had gotten worse, but after watching as that knowledge warped her welcoming features into a harsh, pained grimace, I came to the conclusion that expanding on the fact would only break her down more than she already was.

I suppose that doesn't matter very much anymore. She's here now, staying over at my house night after night, keeping me company during particularly cold winter afternoons by the fire, watching as I paint. I pretend I don't notice her eyes as they fix so intently on my strokes, but I see them, and it's difficult to stifle the smile that threatens at my lips every damn time. Katniss is characteristically reserved when it comes to emotions, and I don't ever expect her to explicitly tell me that she cares about me. There are some days when I wonder if she even does. But in moments like those, when I find her silver irises following my movements, her body relaxed and undisturbed, I can tell that even if how I feel about her isn't reciprocated equally, it doesn't go wholly unanswered. And that's enough to keep me going.

I find it ironic that it was Katniss who first considered loving me. I was the one to love her all along, only lapsing when the Capitol took me. Maybe it was out of some strange form of self-preservation that I walled up the sentiment in the back of my mind, too afraid to allow myself to bring it into the light. But the moment she told me that she was afraid of falling for me, I felt this warmth ball up somewhere in my chest, spreading to the tips of my fingers and toes. I knew the feeling well—it was as old as time itself, and the moment that it came washing over me, its familiarity led me to believe that it had never left to begin with. That I'd never stopped loving Katniss. I'd been remembering, day by day, inklings of thoughts and of memories since before I was tortured, but the moment those words slipped from her tongue, the feeling of incorruptible ardor flooded my system and suddenly, I remembered _everything_. Maybe that was the trigger I needed. Before then, I was able to recall those nights on the train, the pink morning on the beach, but I hadn't been able to grasp exactly why they'd been so special to me. But in that moment, I remembered. I remembered the abiding satisfaction of holding her in my arms to try and chase the nightmares away, of the excitement in my core of feeling her lips on mine and suspecting that we finally had something real. It was all back. They say that a person can never be fully restored from a hijacking, and maybe the fact that my hallucinations still come from time to time proves that hypothesis, but this is closer to repair than I ever could've imagined. It took restraint from every muscle in my body not to pull her down to me and kiss her when she told me, but she'd already kissed me twice prior, more out of pity than anything, and I was afraid that if I repeated the gesture she would think it was more out of consolation than of genuine devotion. Not to mention that she'd just released her guard and admitted that loving me frightened her, and if I roped her back in, she'd likely feel smothered and even more overwhelmed with anxiety.

So for the past few months, I've held my tongue. I know that Katniss is fragile and fears vulnerability to no end. I assume that falling for someone, to her, entails a degree of exposure that she's never been overtly fond of. Maybe it's because I've been head-over-heels for her so long that this vulnerability is second nature to me and that's why I'm not hesitant to admit that, undoubtedly, I am in love with Katniss Everdeen. I've loved this girl since I first heard her sing when we were practically infants, and I will love her until time itself has come to a halt. And I suspect that she's aware of it by this point, but I try to at least repress the most extensive of gestures. I don't want to suffocate her into feeling uncomfortable. Unless Katniss arrives at the conclusion that she's willing to let me in despite the weakness that comes with it, I will remain as withdrawn as I possibly can while still nurturing her. She needs a slim balance of feeling both protected but independent, and finding that equilibrium is something I juggle with every day. Maybe once she feels like her individuality is not threatened, once she finally feels strong enough by her own standards, she'll let me tear down her walls.

Until then, I wait patiently. Waiting for Katniss is an art that I've perfected and expect to put into practice for quite a while longer. But the thought of that doesn't dishearten me as I know it should. The two of us have forever and a day to spend together, infrequently interrupted by a drunken Haymitch and his geese, and intermittent visits to Sae at the market. So I have forever and a day's worth of hope that she'll eventually reciprocate what I feel for her. We fill this eternal forever with activities to pass the time. Painting, writing, long promenades through town, cooking. I teach her how to make cheese buns—her favorite—knowing full well that while she is a beast in the woods, she will never be close to one in the kitchen. She's reached the point that, underneath my supervision, she doesn't burn the bread anymore, but I feel as if her progress in this category has reached a steady plateau. And that's okay.

Another frequent activity between the two of us includes tossing playful banter. She's just as sarcastic as ever, and I love her more and more for it—and although her arguing does get a little irritating at times, I never lose my patience with her. I'll wait calmly for her to settle down, my tolerance never faltering. In moments where she's hostile or upset, I refuse to relent in my affection. She needs to be loved the most when she believes she deserves it the least. Most days don't pass without a petty argument, and that's alright. I remind myself that she's still making progress.

Katniss has begun to visit her woods again, sitting silently in thought I assume, although she surprises me one day by returning with a rabbit. As I stand there in utter disbelief, she laughs and explains that she's been setting snares. There's something about the motion of her muscles when she uses a bow that sends her into a brief but violent fit of terror, but setting traps doesn't share that effect. Hence, she's finding progress in starting to hunt again, but in a much more nonaggressive way.

While her afternoons in the woods become more frequent like they used to be, I decide that sitting around the house and busying myself with painting and cooking is too unproductive to maintain a steady lifestyle for months to come. So one morning, after she's slipped into her hunting boots, hugged me goodbye, and parted for her trek, I decide that it's my time to get out, too. Only I go to town.

Katniss is surprised upon return when I tell her that I'm starting up a bakery again. Across the street from Mae's office, I'll be building my own. We need income, and in our endless forever, it will give me something to execute while she's away. After the initial shock has subsided, she reacts particularly well to my declaration. We eat dinner together, per usual, and retreat to our customary spot before the hearth. I light a fire as she drapes her thin silhouette in blankets, and once the flames have begun their ascent into the crispy air above them, I sit back, beside her. She leans a tired head on my shoulder, and although the action is not atypical, her closeness and casual fondness releases an excitement in my veins as new as the first time we ever touched. I suppose that feeling her with me will never get old. I will never tire of her.

Without thinking it through, I tilt my head over and downward to place a light peck on her cheek. I feel her cheeks redden underneath my lips, and I withdraw in anticipation of a negative reaction—have I crossed a line?—but instead she looks up to me with her warm seam eyes and smiles.

"What was that for?"

I just shrug; I don't really know. She relaxes again at my side and I wrap an arm around her ribs, palm delicately cupping her waist. Although she's still thin, she's put on a healthy amount of weight since our return. I guess being tied to a baker does have its positive consequences.

She asks me about the bakery, and I'm eager to tell her about my plans. I want to keep it small so that I only have to hire an extra set of hands, or two, for help. But I want to do orders. I miss decorating cakes for weddings or other magnificent celebrations; I've had no reason to craft anything so large since before the war and the notion is slightly disheartening.

For the first time since I told her about my idea, I see her grey eyes falter. "Does this mean you'll be away most of the day?"

We've reached this odd state of reliance on each other's company. Even though I know she doesn't love me, I know that she still needs me around just like I do with her.

"I'll align my hours with your hunting schedule to the best of my ability." And then, my conviction grows slightly weaker. "But I guess there will be some mornings where I leave before you do, and some nights I won't get back until right before dinner. I'll try my hardest to make those as infrequent as possible, Katniss. I promise."

I know that my assurances carry as much weight with her as they can. For her, I will never break my promise. And she knows that well.

We retreat to bed for the night afterwards. She hasn't slept in her own house in months, and so by now, most of her clothes have ended up in my closet. Yet she still likes to wear an oversized t-shirt of mine to bed instead of her own pajamas and I try not to overthink why that is _too_ extensively in fear that it will give me a degree hope that I shouldn't possess. I part for a few minutes to quickly shower the day off of my skin, and when I return, Katniss isn't turned with her back to the door as usual. She lies to face me, loose hair spread all over the pillow, watching as I push through the door.

"Hey Peeta?" she pipes quietly.

I respond as I pull back the comforters, sliding in beside her. "Yes?"

I leave a few inches of distance in between us, and she closes it, curling up against my chest. Her fingers lift from between the sheets to run through my damp hair, sending collective shivers down my spine.

"I'm really proud of you. For the bakery, I mean. You needed to do something for yourself for once."

In a very roundabout way, this decision is partly for her as well. Even though it'll give me something to work for and fill my days with, I want to be able to provide for her. And I want to show her that I'm just as strong as she is.

Besides, there's something in this gesture that feels so… _normal_. Even though I know that our lives will eternally be far from standard, the image of living with Katniss with our lives in a synchronic rhythm is so satisfying. We'll wake up together in the mornings, share breakfast. We'll leave together for me to head to the bakery, for her to trek off to the woods. We'll come back home for dinner and then to spend the evening painting, or writing for her, and then sneak off to bed when we're both too tired to function any longer. That repetition of events fills a pattern that I could see myself following for years to come. It seems easy, peaceful, and above all, healthy. Both of us will be able to do what we need in order to progress, in order to mend ourselves, but in the end, we come together and patch up whatever holes are left.

Instead of vocalizing any of this, I lean over and plant a gentle kiss on the tip of her nose. Her eyes flutter closed and when I pull back, she's grinning slightly.

I lie on my back and she shifts up to my side, twining her arms around me and resting her cheek on my chest. I can only imagine how wildly my heart races when she does this and wonder if she gets any satisfaction for hearing it speed.

That night, like most nights nowadays, neither of us have nightmares. We sleep peacefully until the sun rises in the mornings, jetting rays of muted light through the open window. I awake first to be enveloped in my two favorite things in the world; the pastel orange that wraps around the ascending sun, and of course, the Girl on Fire that is still draped over me, stirring peacefully just below my chin. Every morning that I wake to find her with me, I struggle to believe that this is real. But whenever her eyes flutter open, blinking through the haze to meet mine, I ask her.

She always assures me with unceasing grace and a gentle smile that, yes, it is real.


	10. Reverie

_Happy Holidays everyone! Since school is out for winter break, I'll hopefully be writing a bit more. So I hope you don't mind fairly frequent updates._

_I don't think I have much to note as of now, so I guess I just want to thank you all for all of the favorites/follows/reviews. Please enjoy this hell of a chapter that I've so recklessly constructed! ;)_

**_Disclaimer: I own nothing! _**_(I think I may have forgotten a disclaimer on earlier chapters! Oopsies.)_

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It's been about six months since we came back to Twelve when it happens. Give or take a few weeks, of course; Peeta's always been the one to calculate these kinds of things while I unwind and allow the days to mesh together into one incomprehensible slur. I only tell time by seasons at this stage. The snow from the winter is in the process of melting, the light hours stretching like elastic, and sporadic patches of green appear all over the earth. So I estimate that it's been about six months.

I couldn't have predicted it when it comes, but maybe I shouldn't be so floored when it does. My nightmares have been reducing significantly in frequency over these past few months. This can be attributed to Peeta's company—how he holds onto me as if releasing his grasp would leave me to fall off the face of the planet all together. How he strokes my hair, my cheeks. How he kisses my forehead, but nothing more, as he knows my fear of being overly smothered.

But of course, my nightmares don't wholly evaporate. That's why I shouldn't have been so reeled when one of particularly imposing magnitude wriggles its way into my mind. Nevertheless, it does so, and with relentless aggression. And it rips me apart at the seams as if I was tied together by nothing more than nimble threads. I am unraveled.

But that's for later. First, how it came to be.

This night is fairly more clement than most proceeding it, cooling comfortably after a warm afternoon. I'd been hunting and returned to a bonfire in Haymitch's back yard. Peeta and I stay for a while, reclined around the open flame, bathed in the musky scent of smoke and alcohol as Haymitch knocks one down, bottle after bottle. I have my back pressed to Peeta's chest as his arms delicately wind around me. He's telling Haymitch of the phone conversation he had with Johanna earlier, and I get lost in his chuckles. I've faded out by this point, my eyes trained on the flickers of orange before me. Thinking. About how I travelled too far north in my adventure in the woods today. How I'd found the meadow. The meadow that I'd tried too judiciously to avoid.

Green blades of grass had already begun to split through the dirt, eager dandelions sprouting their way up into the open air, but the large plot of turned land was impossible to overlook as I came across it. My blood ran cold at the realization that my feet were planted on a mass grave—this was where they had taken all of the bodies after the war, after Twelve was firebombed. Hundreds upon hundreds of lost souls, all packed under the ground. Under where I stood.

As I shower off that night, I scrub every crease in my body until my skin is aching and raw. As if that will make this nauseating pit in my core somehow subside. I know it won't, and I don't know why I burnish my flesh so ferociously with the hope that it magically will.

I suppose that accounts for the dream, or at least partially. Initially, I attempt to reject the underlying cause. It's only when I take the time to analyze the nightmare _afterwards_ that it hints at something much deeper than just the events of the preceding afternoon.

But that's for later. Now for the dream.

After the shower runs cold, and my skin stings from the pressure, I slip out of the water, dry off, and creep into Peeta's room. Immediately after I slip between the sheets, his arms accommodated me, reeling me into his hold. Already exhausted from a long day, sleep finds me soon after.

And then it happens.

Looking back on it, I think one of the most shocking facets of this nightmare was that it didn't _start off_ as a nightmare. Not in the slightest—quite to the contrary, actually.

I never remember exactly how dreams begin, only how they end when I'm violently ripped from their braces. So I can't quite recall its initiation; the first thing that I remember at all is sitting on the back porch with Peeta during that inexorably peaceful season between spring and summer, where everything is fresh but mature all at once. Before the air grows too hot, but after the threat of cold still looms. We rest together, linked side by side with our arms. My head rests on his shoulder, and he kisses my hair.

This dream, right off the bat, proves to be much different than others. Instead of homing in on individual conversations, scenes fly by like calendar pages. It's as if my life is laid out before me, conveyed in a rush of unexplained affairs.

Then we're walking through the woods; more like I walk as Peeta stumbles clumsily. He and nature are proven to be illustrious foes. Peeta paints, he bakes, and he loves unconditionally, but he does not hike.

Scene by scene flickers behind my lids—I catch smiles on my part, chuckles full of abandon on his. Shimmering blue eyes, golden curls. Hands intertwined. Singing.

Another facet of this dream that labels it an anomaly is the idea that it all seems so… so real. Even after it's over. There's no clearly arcane situations or out-of-place motions through the entire compilation of events, and maybe that's what's so essentially frightening by the end. It all fits together like one concordant puzzle with no jagged, odd pieces to entice inquisition.

Amidst this visage of ignorant bliss, Peeta is kneeling down. Then I'm wearing a white dress in an empty room, although the room is intrinsically bursting at the seams with warmth and excitement. My smile stretches from cheek to flushing cheek, light from the fire dancing on the walls. Peeta stands before me, eyes as bright as ever and full of incessant adoration. He kisses me tenderly, breathing my name between my parted lips. When he tells me he loves me, I respond with repetition, and the profession seems so natural on my tongue. _I love you too, Peeta._ As if my love for him was never in question to begin with.

We're sitting on a beach now, fingers barely brushing, covered in sand. Annie is here, and so is her son. Johanna has come, and so has my mother. We all seem so happy.

And then Peeta and I have come back home. He perches on a stool by an open window, painting a canvas with blues and violets. I stroke his neck from behind, nimble fingers running through soft locks, watching as he paints us two in a very bizarre position. In the portrait, my shoulders are pressed to Peeta's chest. His palms curl against the back side of my hands, fingers interlaced, securing my own palms against a slightly round stomach.

Soon after, the scene flickers to one of me propped up on the marble of the kitchen counter, belly fully curved as if I have a pillow under my shirt, as Peeta constructs a masterpiece of a cake. His strong baker's hands delicately shape sugar flowers—the entire gentility of his tough features seems absolutely beautiful in their contradiction. Peeta is mighty, he is sturdy, he is unmovable. But he is unremittingly soft, considerate, nurturing.

So it is not a surprise that when the image shifts, he is now not holding sugar flowers, but an impossibly tiny bundle with impossibly tiny fingers, reaching desperately up at their father. His hands tease his child as he hums in response to the coos that rise from the blanket. He watches this pocket-sized being with a gaze of unwavering devotion that even I could've never cultivated from him towards me. And that it okay with me. In this dream, I know that Peeta only will grow to love me more with every day, and in a way very different than that of his child. There is no competition, just gratification.

Now we're lying in a meadow. Peeta has his arm around me as we watch our child prance through the grass. Her hair coils down her back in sunshine-toned ringlets, blue eyes bright and trusting like her father. She takes after me only in her demeanor; her graceful prowess, strong and elegant all the same. She will be a hunter; I can tell by the silence in her bounds, the eagerness to heed the world around her. Peeta kisses my cheek, and in this dream, I do not feel broken. I feel at peace. This is due partially to the fact that this child of Peeta's looks much like Prim, and instead of a resonating ache pumping through my veins with her image, I feel blissful content. It's almost as if I have her back. Almost.

In this moment, I feel as if my happiness is untouchable. As if Peeta and I are secure in our trust of the world. We have been mended.

But I should know that harmony is fleeting and hope is much more easily quashed than it is sustained. That's the only concrete truth I've ever come to believe in.

Before I can get used to this beautiful ray of sunshine that I can call my daughter, it is suddenly just me and Peeta. We stand in the meadow of dandelions, staring blankly at the upturned patch of dirt at our feet. Where a mass grave of over a thousand beings was once pitted, a single grave now rests. Surrounding the plot of dust lies clusters of flowers, like for Rue. Only this is not Rue. This is my sunshine.

Now, Peeta and I are sitting at home, both uncomfortably straightened on the couch. We do not touch. Instead of the room being illuminated with those beautiful oranges that Peeta loves so much, it is now fully flushed. Our skin is pallid, and Peeta's eyes are now monochrome, washed of not only their color but their glimmer that had always donated so much promise to me.

Then, we are seated at the dinner table, eating in silence, miles apart. Forks clatter against plates, and the wind howls from outside. But we do not speak.

We are now in bed. He on one side, me on the other. Our backs face each other's, and I remain curled up in the fetal position as Peeta doesn't move. We are thousands of miles apart now, and we do not look at each other.

And then, I am back at my house. My dusty, darkened mansion, foggy with age and cobwebs. I am alone. I am hopelessly alone.

I am growing older now. My figure is beginning to slacken, as I am not going into the woods to exercise. My hair is losing its richness, grey sprouting at the roots, wrinkles on the weathered skin of my face. Most days, I remain coiled underneath a pile of blankets in my bed that seems oceans wide in its barrenness, shivering in clammy sweat. However, on the few days that I manage to drag my wasting body off of the creaky mattress, I collapse in my chair which is placed at the window, and I stare outside. The world outside is grey and uninviting, and my eyes follow every flicker of movement that they can pinpoint. My chest is hollow now, my entire body still in its lethargy. I feel nothing.

The only instances in which I register even an ounce of sensation entering my vacant frame is to feel the slight pulse of a heart that I am skeptical still exists. This happens in reaction to one event, and one event only.

It happens twice a day, when I see him leave and return to his house, just a few yards away from mine. He leaves in the morning when the sun has risen, and returns when it begins its decent. I watch with tired eyes as the boy with the bread survives in a manner that I cannot.

He is now not even the boy with the bread. His name does not sing in my mind as it used to; some days, I can't even remember it. I remember most everything else—the satiny feel of his skin, affectionate blue irises, the taste of my own name as he whimpered it into my mouth during impassioned evenings. But it holds nothing for me anymore, as I can't feel. I can only remember what it used to be like to feel, and what it _used_ to be like to love and be loved back with blissful recklessness. To watch as he loved our daughter, our ray of sunshine. The sun has since stopped shining.

And now, I'm back in the meadow. Shriveled patches of grass coat the pasture, and next to the miniature rectangle of sod that still remains unfruitful as it blankets my sunshine, a larger rectangle of sod cuts through the land. This soil buries my flower, my promise of rebirth, my everything. I stand above my two lost loves, my eyes focused somewhere beyond this life.

Below my feet, what used to be a prairie of dandelions is now nothing but dust.

My eyes shoot open to the sound of a demonic screech, and my body springs upwards. I can't breathe. It occurs to me that maybe this scream is coming from my own lips, but I can't manage to rake in any control over my body—my muscles spasm, acting on their own accord. I am thrashing violently, my airways constricting, and I'm suffocated by darkness.

What's most frightening of it all, what keeps me screaming, what keeps my heart from starting, is that this darkness, imposing in its lethal vacancy, seems no more real than what I just woke up from.

I cannot distinguish reality from nightmare anymore.


	11. Always

_Sorry for the cliffhanger last week! This chapter is going to be far more pleasant, I promise. This was actually the first chapter that I started planning when I decided to write this fanfic, and I think this will be my favorite one to show you all as of yet because it's one of the scenes I've been waiting for since the beginning. (a.k.a there's some long-awaited Everlark.) I apologize, it's a little rough around the edges, but hey. It's here. So I hope you all enjoy! Pop in and leave a review if you can. :)_

_Disclaimer: I own nothing at all._

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It doesn't take long for this penetrating darkness, daunting in its desolation and suffocating thickness, to suddenly become filled. I feel thick arms weave around my convulsing body, and suddenly Peeta is here, holding my face to the crook of his neck, fingers parting my tangled mane over and over again. He murmurs softness by my ear, promising that it's not real, it's not real. Over and over again like a rhythmic chant. _It's not real, Katniss, it's not real._

But it _feels_ so real. Everything did. Temperate afternoons, soft kisses, the unadulterated ardor, our daughter… Even now, the recollections are so clear, so untainted with haze and other dream-like lenses. Those scenes feel palpable even after they've fled, planting a deep ache in my chest. Every image floods to mind… and I'm hesitant to admit it, but I wanted all that—everything in the beginning, at least. Before the sun stopped shining. For a split second, I crave the entirety of what I'd always been so terrified of. Loving Peeta, having a child, having _his_ child…

"It was just a nightmare, Katniss," he whispers gingerly, his lips faintly brushing against the cartilage of my ear as his hands work over my knotted back. His palms iron across my aching muscles in subduing circles as I choke out strangled sobs. "I'm here, I'm here. Katniss. You're alright."

My mind is inundated in sundry images, flickering through my head without an ounce of restraint. Sleeping alone in my own cold bed, grey and creaky. Standing above two dusty graves. But then, something more pleasant surfaces. Holding my ray of sunshine with Peeta's arms twined around the both of us. Instead of easing some of the ache, however, this last scene elicits throatier cries from the pit of my chest.

"It was so _real_, Peeta," I whimper feebly.

My fingers dig into his back as I clench onto him relentlessly, as if he's my anchor to this earth itself. My tears soak Peeta's shirt over his shoulder, but if he minds, he doesn't parade it. His sighs continue to encircle me, and suddenly I feel his lips against my ear, against my temple, against my cheek. His kisses are far from hungry; it's clear that this gesture is solely for my comfort, not his pleasure. Peeta is the embodiment of sacrifice and altruism; how did I wind up in this boy's bed? How did I come to be with such a forgiving, affectionate soul? I surely deserve none of this. I am detrimental, I am cold in my fiery aggression. Peeta gives and gives, I take and take. The relationship we have is assuredly harmonious, as he balances me seamlessly, but it certainly must damage him. Why he stays with me is beyond my understanding; how a boy who deserves the entire world settles for such a broken, defective girl.

"I know. I know, Katniss. It feels so real… they _always_ do… but it's not, it wasn't. It was just a dream. I'm here."

His assurances are short, cut, but soothing. Each word ripples through my veins, calming me ever-so-slightly.

After quite some time, passed with soothing movements on his part and garroted sobs on mine, eventually, he warily lays my body down beside him in the blankets. I allow him to position me as if I'm nothing more than a limp rag doll, for I have no energy, no incentive. I'm still whimpering as he stretches out on his side adjacent to my silhouette, and the moment I feel his lips find my forehead, I curl up into an emotionally-compromised ball, quivering and sniffling. Peeta reels me in, holding me to his chest like a baby. As of now, I have the reserve of one.

I feel his lips press to my hair, over and over. He doesn't think to ask for a summary of the dream; at this point, he's aware that I never elect to tell him of my nightmares.

But for some reason, when my mouth opens, sequences of fragmented phrases begin to pour out. Uncharacteristically, I exercise no restraint.

"It started out… it began so _good_, Peeta. It was you and me. It was just us two, and we were happy, and we weren't all that broken like we are here, and it was so incredible. And we were always together, and you loved me and I wasn't afraid and I wanted you back. More than ever. I think we got married… I remember a white dress, and I remember you painting me and you holding my stomach after that, and then we had… we had _her_…"

Sobs rip through my chest now at the thought of my sunshine. She was something that I knew I could never yearn for in reality—I recall too many conversations with Gale about how bringing a child in this world is selfish and cruel. Even though the Games are over, and the revolution has left Panem a significantly more secure place, the life that I live seems so pointless and barren. The only figment of this reality that keeps me alive is Peeta. Everything else is colorless. I couldn't inflict this hollowness on a child.

But even though I've never wanted a baby, and I suppose I never will… I wanted her then. And I ache for her now. The idea is paradoxical and senseless, but it still rings fresh in my mind.

"Her?" he finally murmurs back, his voice light in its enquiry.

My cries are muffled in his chest. "We had a daughter. I don't know her name, but she looked like you… and she looked like Prim… she was the sun. She was so beautiful."

His arms, which are laced around me, seem to relax in their grip slightly. I can tell he's thinking.

"We had a daughter?" he muses quietly into the darkness, his voice catching in my hair. His question is brimming with guilty satisfaction—Peeta's always wanted kids, and I know that the thought of having a child is one of the most satiating notions in his world. My stomach wrenches after I hear his delicate coo—I want to take it back. I shouldn't have given him hope.

My fists are balled already, but I clench them more aggressively, my fingernails digging into the skin of my palm until numbing sparks shoot up my wrists. "But it didn't last long," I continue more flatly than before, tears welling at my eyes again. "Before I could even get to know her, she was gone. We buried her in the meadow where they buried everyone from Twelve after the war. I came across that meadow yesterday, and maybe that's partially why I had this dream… She was gone, Peeta. And it was just you and me again."

After this break in summary, I can sense the newfound rigidity in his grasp. But he kisses the crown of my head again and waits for me to continue.

"It wasn't the same," I choke out angrily. My rage is not directed at him, or at her… I feel rolling spite for myself as my words build up in my chest. I'd told myself all along that it was wrong to love, that it was dangerous and destructive, but I hadn't listened. And I lost everything. "You and I wouldn't speak anymore. We couldn't touch. We would be lying in your bed, on opposite sides of the mattress, not even able to look at each other. You were broken, I was broken, and neither of us could do anything to mend each other. And then I was back at my own house, cooped up in my own bed for most of the days, although sometimes I would sit by the window and watch as you left for the bakery and came back for dinner. I never spoke to you again. My dream ended with me standing in that same meadow, standing over two graves instead of one, and I had never felt so damn empty in my life. It was like every sliver of hope I'd ever had was ripped from me, leaving me naked and alone and helpless. Everything that I ever loved was gone. You were gone, she was gone."

My sobs have resurged, emptying into Peeta's chest as he clutches me to him. At first, he says nothing as I cry, to let me release every pent-up fear before trying to pick up the pieces. He just rubs my back, kisses my hair, holds my shattered body against his.

After quite some time, when my tears have dried my eyes and my muscles are sore from trembling for over an hour without pause, I hear him whisper the same assurance once more.

"It's not real, Katniss."

"It felt so real. It was more real than any nightmare I've had…" My voice cracks, submerging from a desiccated, tight throat.

His lips find my forehead, sticky with sweat. "But it's not, love," he whispers against my skin. The term of endearment sends tingles all through my system, and I release an uneven sigh. "I'm here, aren't I? It's you and me. I couldn't ever leave you, not even if I wanted to. You're my fire, Katniss. You keep me warm and safe and you give me light even when I'm surrounded by darkness. You're the only reason that I rarely have hallucinations anymore, and that I can't seem to ever stop smiling." I laugh weakly through a constricted throat.

But even his little pep talk wears off soon after it's been uttered.

"I don't know how you could stay with me, Peeta," I murmur back, my voice wavering. I nuzzle my cheek against his chest, minutely picking up on his heartbeat, beating clearly through the warm skin over his ribs. I wonder for a brief moment if my heart is as steady as his, or if it's jagged, warped, faint. "I'm so broken."

And then he surprises me. The fingers of one hand, which have been soothingly brushing through my tangled mess of hair, pull closer—they lightly delineate my jawline to place under my chin, and with two fingers, he tilts my head up. Our gazes interlock, the shimmering pools of blue wet with blurring tears but still enshrouding me in a cloud of devotion. I can see it in his eyes, and see it in the way he smiles sadly at me, and the message is thousands upon thousands of times more clear than if he were to articulate it in speech.

_I love you, Katniss._

But he doesn't say the phrase. Instead, he blinks back the moisture and gulps, finally responding to my previous statement.

"So am I."

I lie there with my knees tucked up into my chest, arms curled around myself as if to hold the hundreds of shattered fragments that constitute as my body together. But in this moment, I realize this action is unnecessary. He is twined around me like a ribbon, keeping every shard of my splintered soul in place. He holds me together.

_So am I_. It echoes in my head. Peeta is broken, too—most days, I seem to forget that. Lately, he's been so spirited, so suave that it seems impossible for him to be _not_ wholly repaired from the hijacking and the war. How naïve it was for me to believe such a blatant lie. Peeta is _not_ fixed in the same way that I am still just as ruined. He only stands strong for me in furtively masked pain so that I am protected and provided the elements of comfort that _I_ need to heal. He disregards his own needs to satiate mine. _He gives and gives. I take and take_.

As we lie curled together, falling apart at the seams, I find my arms untangling from my own knees and slipping around his ribs. My palms find his wide shoulders, and I press my weight into him.

"What are you doing?" he coos gently, eyes still trained on mine.

"You're always the one to hold me together. It's about time for me to return the favor."

My forehead finds the tender crook of his neck, basking in his surrounding warmth. We hold each other as we lay intertwined underneath the comforter, soft but sweat-caked skin meeting here and there. He breathes a sigh of gratification as he relaxes in my grasp, and I can feel my own muscles beginning to untangle. We don't need to guard ourselves in this secret place of ours—we have each other to keep ourselves in one piece, no matter how cracked and fragile we may be.

For a final time, I feel him gently press his mouth to my temple. "I love you," he murmurs through the darkness.

My mind expects my entire body to grow rigid at his declaration as it always had before, but bizarrely, I feel myself slacken in his grasp as an even exhale rolls from my tongue. I haven't heard that familiar string of words usher from his mouth since before he returned to Twelve, since before the war, before the entire revolution…

But Peeta loves me again. He loves me now just as he used to.

That is all that is pertinent.

I draw my head from his neck to look up at him, his blonde eyelashes glimmering in the moonlit rays that pan through the open window as his gaze flickers down to meet mine. Even though his subsequent smile conveys slight guilt, his expression reflects his assertion, and in this moment I can't remember having ever trusted someone so completely.

Within my chest, a flame ignites as my heart rate speeds. This warmth that balls up in my core is so new, so surprising—but I recognize it. I've felt it before. On the beach in the Quarter Quell, when Peeta was offering to die for me, and after promising that I needed him, I kissed him in a manner in which I'd never done so before. For that first time, I'd executed the gesture not for the cameras, not to gain sponsors, not as an act. I'd done it out of pure affection, voluntary and spontaneous all the same.

That same hunger rises in my throat now, that need-based longing for Peeta. For the past few months, I'd been curbing that desire, too afraid that it would only shred me apart. But as I lie here, wrapped in the warmth of the boy with the bread, I realize how futile and ridiculous my attempts have been.

As I watch him attentively, eyes flickering between his pools of cerulean and his slightly parted lips that beg the same question I'd been asking myself for months, I consciously decide to give in. This craving that has been rooted inside of me for week after week is not going to subside, as I should've assumed by this stage. It's only going to grow with every touch, every soothing word, every night that we spend grasping on to each other to keep us pieced together.

So I cave. I relinquish my stubborn reluctance to leave myself open for Peeta, cognizant of the notion that I am vulnerable as is. It's pointless to push him out any longer, not when I need him to keep me whole, and not when he needs me back likewise.

One hand slithers from his back, around his ribs and then up to his angular jaw where I cup his cheek in my palm. His eyes flutter closed for a brief second as he leans into my touch.

This hunger grips hold of me now, binding every nerve in my body with its aggression. I knew this would happen eventually, and in this very instant, all of the pieces of my jagged, multifarious puzzle seem to fall into their rightful place. I let my longing win.

When his eyes flicker back open to lock with mine, and he smiles with unmatchable compassion, my mind runs black as it lets my muscles take in the reigns of the situation.

His breath washes over my face as I lean in, pulling myself up to him, closing the distance between us. He meets me in the middle, and my eyes flutter closed as I feel the satiny skin of his lips gently mold into mine.

Within seconds, the world around me has disintegrated. My body impresses into Peeta's as one muscular forearm remains secured against the small of my back, the other sliding through my hair. He lures the breath right from my lungs as his lips part over mine, and I grasp fervently at the back of his neck to keep him with me.

I hadn't kissed him in so long—disregarding those two kisses the night that I attempted to draw him from his hallucination—and now, as we lie tangled together in the bed sheets, I'm curious as to why not. We move harmoniously together as if we were born to do just this, and for the first time in weeks, everything feels so _right_.

Nevertheless, this hunger that grasps at every inch of my body is not quenched like I originally predicted. Kissing Peeta does not satisfy that thirst—it only causes it to flare, making me need him even more. My fingers knot in his curls, and he gasps for the air that evades both of us but doesn't stop.

My mind is muddled, desperate, yearning for more of him, more than I've ever wanted before. Peeta kisses me with an unregimented intentionality and a manner of fierceness that I've never experienced from such a gentle soul. But he is still careful with me, and even though he kisses me fearlessly, he is careful not to pull on my hair too hard, or squeeze me too tight. He does not bite. I have never felt so wanted and simultaneously secure. He is as ardent as he is careful. Peeta loves with fanatical intensity, but he is gentle, he is considerate.

I feel my breath suck in fervently as his lips leave mine to pepper kisses on my cheek, then my jaw, and then down to the tender skin of my neck and collar. My breaths are short and gasping as his lips trail miles around. When I whimper his name, his grasp around me tightens and I feel him moan softly against me.

As he whispers kisses over my skin sticky with sweat, his lips seem to mend the cracks that have wedged through me. He heals me with each touch, and I feel renewed, full of life, and full of hope. Peeta is my dandelion—he is beautiful, gentle, and promises a type of revitalization I'd never thought possible.

When his lips rise to meet mine again, I taste my name as he pours it out through parted lips in a fervid sigh. I fell him whisper something about necessity, but my tangled mind can't register much more than my avid hunger and the taste of his lips. Now, nothing matters but him. I suppose I have matters to worry about, but they can worry about themselves until the morning. Kissing Peeta erases my fear, my worries, my pain. He donates a sensation of ecstasy that is unfamiliar but overwhelmingly beautiful.

I don't tell Peeta I love him, in part because I don't know how to convey it correctly. He doesn't ask me for me to vocalize it either, thankfully. But I illustrate through actions and overt infatuation that his feelings for me don't go unreciprocated. He is mine, and I am his.

Eventually, our hungry kisses slow to soft, gentle, elongated ones. Our breathing and heart rates slow, but his hands don't leave my back, my cheeks. My arms remain laced around him with no intent of departure.

I imagine that I could kiss Peeta until the light of morning chases out the midnight gloom, until we're bathed in pastel pinks and oranges. I imagine that he wouldn't contest if I tried to. But after quite some time of lying still with him, tangled into one whole being instead of two broken ones, I pull away to look at him. He's now lying on his back, hands lifted to cup my face as I have one resting on his chest. We watch each other for several minutes, smiling in a comfortable silence. His thumb brushes over my cheek, through my hair, grooming it away from my face. I trace imaginary lines over his torso and collar, amusing myself with the goose bumps that arise where my fingers trail.

Eventually, I lower my body to rest on his chest. His heart beat is thunderous, synchronized with mine. We lay together peacefully.

I all but completely forget the dream as I snuggle up against his warm silhouette. Here and now, the only relevant idea is that we're together. Even though the morning may bring new trials, fresh fears to conquer, we can do this as one. Tingles shoot up my spine as his fingers find mine, ribboning together. His lips gently brush against my forehead; they feel like velvet, and I lean into his kiss. With his remaining hand, he slides his knuckles underneath the fabric of the back of my shirt, tracing up and down with his fingers over the contours of my spine. I shiver pleasantly. The room is warm and hazy with sweat, but we are comfortable for the time being. Even though bliss is characteristically relative, I am confident that this exhilaration is absolute.

Sleep begins to seep into my bloodstream; my eyes feel heavy, and I fight to keep them open. Peeta can see my struggle, and he chuckles musically at the battle.

"Go to sleep, love."

His voice wraps around me, and I gaze up at him through thick lashes to watch his eyes glowing underneath a brow glimmering with perspiration. But he is smiling wider than I've seen in weeks.

"I don't want this to end." I feel like sleep may interrupt whatever affection he has for me—it may be a feeble to fear this, it may be ridiculous, but whatever I have with Peeta is what I ache to have after the sun has risen and the cloak of darkness has evaporated. I've found that many emotions are magnified in the night; I pray this is different.

His chest rises and falls with steady breaths; the rhythmic movement lulls me closer to unconsciousness each second.

"We have a million more moments just like it waiting for us," he murmurs gently.

I hope so.

I feel darkness closing in as my mind begins to falter. "Stay with me, Peeta."

As sleep begins to take me, and my eyes close for a final time tonight, I drown in an abysmal pool of black. Only his voice pulls me back to the surface, even though it's for a brief flicker of a moment, iterating a single word that I've heard from his lips before in response to the same question.

It soothes me all the same.

"Always."

* * *

_Thank you for the read! Sorry for taking so long to include some well-needed Everlark. I wanted to pace things a little slower than many of the other fanfictions I've read by showing just how painfully long it takes Katniss to become comfortable enough to open up to Peeta again. After reading several articles about PTSD, I've sort of changed my view on the whole Peeta/Katniss situation and so that's influenced the pace of this fanfic. I believe that both of them are extremely traumatized after the war, and when people have PTSD (or a mental disorder like it) I think that progress isn't easy or quick and relapse is possible at any time after being so devastated. I wanted to show that idea by dragging this plot out. But I hope I didn't lose any of your interest in the meantime! Please leave a review if you can if you think that I've interpreted the epilogue of Mockingjay wrong and/or I need to speed things up. _

_Well, anyway, happy holidays to you all! Until next time :)_


	12. The Morning After

_Thank you all for the kind reviews last chapter! I feel so incredibly blessed to have such lovely readers and followers. I received a few very helpful suggestions over the past few days, so especially in this chapter, I'm going to try and implement them a little more. Don't be afraid to let me know how you think I'm doing with everything! I love getting feedback; I mean, I'm writing this story for you, so if there's something that you all want, don't be afraid to pipe up!_

_But anyway, here's a little chapter that sort of follows up on the mood from the last one. Hope you all enjoy!_

**_Disclaimer: I own nothing._**

* * *

I awake to the delicate song of a dove outside my window, cooing in the soft spring morning. A breeze, cool and forgiving, floats in from Peeta's open window and enshrouds us in fresh air.

My muscles ache from the stress I put them under after resurfacing from the nightmare, my throat dry from crying so liberally. But nevertheless, my chest feels far lighter. I bear no burden on my shoulders. At least not now; the worries and regrets can catch up to me later. But for now—for today—I will dwell in this fleeting peace as long as my inconsistent mind will allow.

I peek through dark lashes, my eyes training on Peeta as he slumbers, arms still tenderly draped around me. Even in his sleep, a gentle smile conquers his soft expression. God. If I could elect to wake to one thing every morning, it would unquestionably be this.

Even though it stings to consider all the grief I've put Peeta through over the course of these past years, for the first time since the 74th games, I feel as if I've done something right by him. For once, I pleased Peeta—and I did so in a suitable fashion. There was no deceit, no phony acts, no ulterior motives to falsely give him hope. Unlike in the games, everything last night was genuine. If Peeta would have asked me the same question he does so frequently, I would've been able to truthfully assure him that what I did feel for him was real. What I _do_ feel for him.

I know that no reconsolidation between us, no degree of unalloyed affection, could ever make up for all of the pain I've caused him. After all, it was my fault that he was taken by the Capitol to begin with. That he was tortured, hijacked. That he still has hallucinations today.

That he was ever broken in the first place.

But as I gaze up at him through hazy morning eyes, even though I know I'll never forgive myself for slighting him, my self-resentment begins to dull just enough for my mind to clear.

I extend in his arms, straining myself to reach up to his shoulders. With a palm softly cupping his jaw, I press my lips to the warm, tender skin between his neck and his collar.

Underneath my touch, his body grows rigid for a moment as he inhales sharply, but once he grasps the components of the situation, he relaxes. His subsequent sigh is elongated with satisfaction.

I lift my weight above him, a tiny palm resting on his chest as I hover over his body, hair sprouting everywhere like cocoa waterfall. He lifts his fingers to brush through my sweaty, tangled mane, grinning up at me with intemperate exuberance.

"Good morning," he practically sings.

I repeat the same greeting with equivalent enthusiasm.

He inhales deeply, stretching, before falling back to his comfortable position underneath me. "Tell me something." His blue eyes smolder, illuminated in the ambrosial rays that beam through the open window.

"Anything."

His palm moves from my hair to my jaw, rounding around gently as he plays with the wispy down at the nape of my neck. "Last night… everything about it. Real or not real?"

And _there_ it is.

I chew on my bottom lip as a smile encroaches at the corners of my mouth. Poor Peeta; he's afraid he's dreamt it all. I begin to wonder if the rest of our lives will be spent playing this game of deciphering what's reality and what's a figment of imagination—I'm aware that his trust in me has been growing, swelling immensely over the past month or so, but I wonder how continuous that progress will be. While his hallucinations are becoming more infrequent, and subsequently, the frightening ordeals that follow where Peeta must pick apart what's real and what's not have dwindled in their incidence, I doubt that this game we play will ever become unnecessary. He will always struggle with reality, just as I will in the middle of the night when I wake from dreams that rock me to my core.

But for now, all I can do is assure him that his memory serves correct.

"Very, very real."

I watch as his fingers involuntarily rise to his lips as his eyes lose focus, drifting somewhere beyond me as he thinks. But his grin does not diminish.

Of course, he is yanked back into the present as I swing my leg around to his other side so that I'm essentially straddling his torso. His cheeks burn a striking pink.

"Katniss…" As his lips form around my name, they bear a twinge of a question.

I straighten up, still sitting on him, my palms flattening over his chest. "Can we stay here all day?"

His eyes widen as he nearly chokes. "In… in _bed_…?"

A giggle bubbles in my throat. "At home. I won't go out to the woods, and we can lock Haymitch out so he doesn't drunkenly invite himself in, and you can take a break from the bakery." Although it was not finished yet, Peeta's bakery had been making excellent development in its construction; and of course, even though he had a full crew to assist him on the weekdays, he would spend most of the late morning and early hours of the afternoon hauling around wood and doing his own fair share of manual labor (which was quite evident in his widening biceps and hardening torso, might I add).

Of course, his crew could spare him for one day, I'm sure.

This time, it's my own eyes that widen as his strong baker's hands slip into place on my waist. Although he doesn't overtly respond to my question, his expression tells me all I need to know.

"Let me get you some breakfast."

And so Peeta and I roll out of bed. He plants a quick kiss on my cheeks as we part; he heads to the kitchen, I deviate towards the bathroom. My lips tingle, feeling the phantom sensation of his pressed against them last night, but I swallow that hunger for the moment and turn on the shower. We have years and years to memorize each other's lips. So for right now, it is far from imperative.

After I've stripped from my sweat-caked, oversized pajamas, I duck underneath the hot jets of water, feeling the stickiness from last night dispel from my skin in wisps of steam. My mind involuntarily fishes in the back of my brain for things to worry about, for concerns or for fears as it so naturally does, but I can't be bothered today. I have made Peeta genuinely happy, which is a feat of its own that should be celebrated.

I briefly question why I'm allowing myself to revel in this moment. I've never truly deserved happiness, so why should I accept it now? Maybe it's because for once, instead of taking and taking from Peeta, I've given something back to him in return. Underneath my touch, I could feel his fragments piecing back together, his self-assurance strengthening with every movement. I know he's not wholly cured, but even if I've sealed just half of the cracks in him that he has mended in me, I've done something right by him.

As I lather soap all over my bronzed skin, I examine my body for visible cracks. Apart from the scars from the war, I have no mutilations to speak of. As of now, I look whole. I certainly feel more whole than yesterday and the many days before.

This begs the question: Why did I take so damn long to just let the boy in? How could I have shut sweet, comforting Peeta out for so long? After allowing him to take me by storm, I'd come to realize that risking vulnerability only led to more definite, complete security. I was afraid that letting my guard down with him would leave me defenseless. Now, the notion seems ridiculous; of course, Peeta wouldn't leave me unprotected. He is my guardian, even more so now than ever.

And of course, I protect him, too. Maybe not in the same ways as he for me. But watching him transform from a broken boy, hiding his scars in order to comfort me, into a confident man of unwavering affection and reassurance, made me realize that I am not the only beneficiary. Peeta needs me just as much as I need him. And by shutting him out, I was not only hurting myself but preventing him from obtaining the comfort and promise that he so entirely deserves. My act had been wholly selfish.

Now it's time to at least partially redeem myself by smothering Peeta with the excessive attention that's merited.

After the water begins to run cold, I step from the stream to slip into my underwear and a green tunic, and nothing else. I figure, if we're going to remain pent up in this house for the remainder of the day, this will suffice. My fingers immediately fly to my hair, instinctively preparing to braid it, but then I remember that Peeta likes it down. Today is devoted to him and his happiness alone.

I take the stairs two at a time as I bounce down to the kitchen. Peeta has batter circled out in a skillet as he gracefully cavorts from counter to counter. I hop up on top of one across from the stove, watching him as he moves. For someone who is so entertainingly maladroit in the woods, he sure has unparalleled elegance here.

"What's on the menu today, chef?"

A bouquet of daisies that he picked a day or two ago for me rests in a vase beside the sink; he plucks one flower from the bunch and tucks it behind my ear, kissing my nose. "Pancakes with syrup, cheese buns, blueberries… and does some cinnamon tea sound alright?"

My mouth waters at even the mentioning of my favorite foods.

"Sounds perfect." My voice is more firm than intended, and so more lightly, I add, "Mr. Mellark, you have surely outdone yourself."

He's pouring violet berries evenly on two china plates, not meeting my gaze to respond. "You deserve nothing less than perfect, my dear."

Even though this ought to leave me blushing, it settles uncomfortably in my core. My mind tumble backwards, regressing instantaneously into a state of self-resentment. I can't seem to prevent myself from declining as my brain spins, questioning repeatedly why Peeta is so incessantly loyal to me. I deserve nothing when it comes to him. I was the one to hurt him, to reject him, to push him out for so damn long, even when it harmed him, until I decided to swallow my pride. If anything, it is Peeta who deserves the world—not the self-centered, stubborn, relatively callous girl he seems to adore so entirely.

He sees my expression contort unexpectedly, and within moments his hands are pushing against the counter on either side of my thighs. He leans in, nose almost brushing against mine. His blue pools are trained on me and wrap me in promises I have yet to understand.

"What's bothering you, love?"

"Nothing," I murmur, attempting to wave it off. Despite my experience in front of a camera from the two Games I suffered through and the propos during the revolution, my acting skills are abhorrently subpar.

He sees through me as if my skin is transparent.

"Don't you shut me out again, Katniss Everdeen. You've been doing so well." His tone is far from hostile; to the contrary, he sounds encouraging, his voice soothing as if to coax the explanation right out of me.

Well, I've got to give the kid credit. He's always been particularly charismatic. For years, Peeta's been able to charm responses from me when no one else could.

I release a sigh. "You pamper me so much, Peeta. I don't deserve any of this."

"Hey now." His voice is even calmer than before as he inches closer, our noses minutely grazing. "Stop telling yourself you don't deserve things. After all you've been put through, you've earned at least a half-decent breakfast."

His enchanting smile elicits one of my own over my dry lips, but it doesn't remain for long. "But what about all I've put _you_ through?"

"What do you mean?" He sounds so clueless. As if I'm a saint. From his perspective, I probably am—but that notion makes me feel worse if anything.

My eyes flicker to the ceiling as a mammoth sigh builds in my lungs. "Where should I begin, Peeta? With the fact that you were taken and tortured because of me, or how I lied to you for the cameras and led you on for months on end? Or how I've spent so long focused on my own broken emotional state that I've completely disregarded your needs? How I shut you out for so goddamn long? And how—"

He seals my rant by pressing silky lips into mine. They mold together, parting, and his breath fills my lungs as mine pours into his.

And then he pulls back, leaving me dazed and slightly disoriented.

"You have made mistakes, Katniss, but that doesn't make you any less deserving than the next person. It only makes you human."

"A pretty rotten human at th—"

"Stop." For the first time this morning, for a brief moment, his resolve falters. His eyes have deepened, pleading my withdrawal.

My breath is caught somewhere between my lungs and my throat, and my silence begs his continuation.

"If you want justifications, I've got them all." His tone is far from angry, but it is steady and deliberate. "It was not your fault that I was tortured. It was the Capitol's. They took me from you, and if anything, I should be _thanking_ you because without your help, I would've never recovered in the first place." And then his voice softens. "And even though it hurt, you had every right to act in front of those cameras in the Games. You needed to in order to survive, and even though I may have resented you for it, I've always understood why you did it. And I also understand that it's difficult for you to open up to anyone, especially in cases where your guard is threatened, and so it would be unfair of me to be angry at your hesitation to let me in over these past months. You need time to heal just as I do. And let's not forget, you _have_ crossed that bridge now. You _have_ let down your guard for me, and I understand just how frightening that is for you, so I won't take it for granted. I'm so proud of you, Katniss. Last night, you proved the impossible, and I couldn't be more grateful."

His breath washes over my face as he defends my actions for me, his eyes never losing their glimmer. I feel ashamed that this boy is so enamored with me that he seems to dismiss all of my offenses. But even more so, I feel so damn lucky to have him here, with me, keeping me safe and sane all the same. He is the only reason that I sit here today, even just partially comfortable in my own skin. Without him, I'd still be barely digesting small meals from Sae, wallowing around the house silently, worthlessly, with no light at the end of the tunnel.

To his assertive oratory, I have nothing to say. Instead, I drape my arms over his shoulders, leaning in and filling the silence with a confident kiss.

But of course, he doesn't let it last for long.

"Do you understand me?"

"I understand," I respond hesitantly. _I just don't agree._ But I say nothing further.

He can tell there's more behind my two-word declaration, but in consideration of the state of the pancakes, he peppers three quick kisses on my lips, my nose, and forehead before whirling around to tend to the skillet. The pan sizzles as he flips the batter disks over.

"Now," he pipes up, turning back toward me with revamped enthusiasm. "Since we are spending the entire day here, _together_—" His tongue rolls around the word as he savors the taste of it, and of course, I enjoy it's sound as well—"whatever shall we fill this time with?"

I shrug as he takes a step closer. "I don't know. I could write a little more in our book, and I suppose you could paint some… and we could maybe curl up on the couch… or in bed…"

Before I can say anything else, his body has aligned with mine on the edge of the counter, his lips finding mine. He wraps himself around me and my legs pin at his hips. Skin meets skin, breath engulfs lips, cheeks… I hear him whisper my name, and consequently, my grip on him tightens.

Kissing Peeta like this leads me to question how I could've gone through these same motions during the games and not fallen for him. Peeta is patently enchanting; each movement of his is methodical, urgent but gentle concurrently. He smells of cinnamon and dough, sugary and alluring. (And then there's a little tinge of asiago cheese from the bread in the oven.) With each kiss, his lips persuade me to lean in harder, more fervently. He reels me in and I need him. Oh god, I _need_ him.

When we break free, we're both panting, but his smile is contagious and I find myself giggling guiltily.

He finishes preparing breakfast, surprising me with kisses every minute or so as I sit in silence and watch him. My eyes train on his shoulders and back to watch as his muscles become apparent when his movements tighten his shirt around his angles. We're both eighteen now, and for the first time, I look at him through mature eyes.

Peeta has become a man.

He is far from that wary, bashful boy that I grew up beside, with soft features and smooth seams. Although his guardian instincts have far from subsided, he has filled into his own form. The roundness of his cheeks has diffused, leaving a sharp jawline and a strong chin. His shoulders have broadened, permitting defined muscles. And now, six months after the return to twelve, his skin has a salubrious glow to it, his eyes bright, curly hair lightened from long afternoons out in the sun. He _looks_ healthy.

When the plates are dressed and I've set the table for two, we sit down and eat, passing the time with trivial conversation. We eat quickly as if there's someplace to be. So once we're done, I feel at a loss.

"What do you want to do?" he prods gently after the dishes have been cleaned, dried, and allocated. He stands behind me, arms weaving around my much thinner silhouette. His lips find the nape of my neck, sending shocks down my system.

His attention dissolves my words and drains my mind. "I… uh… we could… paint?" _So articulate, Katniss._

"Paint what?" he coos.

My mind edgily shuffles through names and faces that we've not included in our book, but after months of sketching and writing, I feel hopelessly defeated. _Finnick, Cinna, Rue, Mags, Boggs, Thresh, Wiress, Portia. Prim. My father. Peeta's parents. Peeta's brothers._

We've written them all out of memory. Now, they're concrete; they can't be forgotten, not with their photos or portraits pinned in the book with a biography. In a sickly paradox, we have immortalized the dead.

I feel his lips delicately graze the cartilage over my ear, and I shiver in his grasp.

"What about her?" he whispers gingerly, his voice nearly inaudible.

I know who he's speaking of instantaneously.

Anxiety bubbles up in my throat, my words catching on my tongue as I attempt with little success to articulate them. "But she's… she's not… _real_, Peeta."

A tiny girl with sunshine as curls flickers through my mind, my face reddening.

"I know. I just want to be able to visualize her." And then he pauses. "If you can handle revisiting that dream. I understand if you can't… it's a lot to ask."

It's not only that diving back into that nightmare may possibly induce me a fit of apprehension, but also that I don't want to give Peeta a false sense of hope. I don't intend on having a daughter—or a child, for the matter—and it would be brutally cruel of me to lead him to believe that maybe, someday, one is possible. That _she_ is feasible.

She isn't.

He identifies from my silence that this is one activity he cannot coax from me. He kisses my cheek as if it's an apology for even asking, trailing over to the living room to slip onto his stool. I imagine he'll just paint another portrait of me—it seems to be his default.

I follow him quietly, and when he begins to dig through his bag to pull out cool shades of blue and violet, I round him, pressing his shoulders into my ribs, arms winding affectionately around his torso. His muscles, which are tightened in disappointment, begin to slacken just marginally.

He preps his brush, dipping it in a canister of cerulean-tinted paint, one that matches his eyes.

As he lifts the brush, I feel my breath catch in hesitation. I can already see from the color scheme he's designated that this piece isn't going to be particularly blithe.

I'd determined from the beginning that this day was going to be for Peeta. After all I've put him through, he deserves at least twenty-four hours of uninterrupted happiness, and thus far, that promise has meant inherently nothing.

As I inhale, I register that I'm probably going to regret this decision for months to come. But at the moment, it doesn't matter.

I lean downwards, my lips pressing into the curls by his temple. "She had eyes just like yours," I murmur tenderly.

His arm, which bears the paintbrush, stiffens. He cocks his head slightly.

"Blue?" His voice is silky, melodious in his inquiry.

I nod faintly. "They were like oceans of their own. So wide, so observant of everything around her. But carefree regardless."

He positions his paintbrush back over the canister, reaching into his bag to grab a stick of charcoal. Then he pauses.

"Are you sure this is okay?"

I squeeze my eyes shut, narrowing my focus on the dream to include nothing other than her. For a brief moment, an illustration of a grave flickers to mind and I feel my entire body tauten, but I gulp it down and push it from my head. Peeta has always subsisted in complete sacrifice. Forfeiting a morning of aggregate sanity can be afforded on my part. Even though he won't articulate it, I can tell he wants this desperately—and so he shall get what he deserves.

"Yes." My voice does not waver.

He lifts the charcoal to the canvas. "I want to sketch her first. So that I can paint her perfectly."

My arms, which are still laced around his rocky torso, tighten gently. I kiss his temple.

"To begin with, she had very graceful features. A small chin, thin nose, magnificent eyes and full lips. She looked like a little pixie, beautiful and elegant all the same."

* * *

We remain this way all morning, basking in the relentless springtime sun as it streams through the glass windowpanes. I linger at Peeta's back, draped around him for the most part, occasionally releasing him to rub circles over his shoulders, to trace lines up and down his spine. I always receive a selfish sense of pleasure as I watch my fingers draw goose bumps over his silky skin. Then again, it's not totally out of self-interest—I'm sure he enjoys these touches as well.

He begins by carefully outlining her, carefully assimilating my description, piecing my comments together to form her incomplete silhouette. His strokes are light and cautious so that they can be refigured if need be. Here, he sketches her from the abdomen up. Her chubby, child-like torso is directed toward the side while her neck is craned so that her entire visage is caught in the portrait. Once his outline is done, I see that he's depicted her with an unworried grin, the dimples I described denting in her full, babyish cheeks.

It takes little time for him to complete his rough delineation of the girl, and within moments, he's pulled out his paints again. Only this time, instead of preparing cool tones, his compilation of hues is much brighter and warmer. He is painting her as sunshine.

He begins with her eyes, wide and considerate and jovial in chorus. He adds flecks of silver around her pupils, augmenting their dimension and depth. And then he moves to her lips.

As he paints, I watch with wonder. His hands are remarkably steady as he delicately brushes the canvas, filling her in, shading her contours. When he arrives at her hair, he tints it a vibrant gold with auburn undertones and pale highlights. My breath catches in my throat as he finishes.

She's glowing.

He has brought her to life before my eyes. She's elegant but soft and rounded as most children are—in this state, I imagine she's three or four years old, beginning to grow into her own frame while still possessing plump childlike features. But she is flawlessly beautiful in her resemblance of both her father and her mother's sister. The same tenderness and conviviality that is so characteristic of both Peeta and Prim emanates from her smile. She is the sun; she radiates, she enchants, she spreads warmth through the room even though she's two-dimensional.

I love her, despite my outright fear of her.

"Finished?" he breathes.

"That's not my call to make," I manage to toss back, surprised that I'm able to locate words in this abyss of awe.

His fingers lift to the page, tracing around the paper of the canvas.

"She's beautiful."

_You're the one who drew her._ But I say nothing.

He rotates on his stool to face me. The elation in his gaze is unmistakable.

They say that eyes are a window to the soul, and in this moment, as I'm staring into his bright blue irises, I can see that deep down he wants her. He loves her, too, and she wasn't even a part of his imagination to begin with.

But now she is. By describing her and allowing Peeta to recreate her, this daughter of ours is suddenly and dreadfully more real than she was twelve hours ago. Even though this is what Peeta wanted, and I can tell it's driving him to the highest point of euphoria to think about her, I regret every last second of this.

I don't want to have children, not even Peeta's. This world is too far broken for me to bring a new bundle of innocence into. It will corrupt her, or him. This life will slowly defeat a child, shattering him or her just as it has shattered us.

Besides, as of now, Peeta and I are too damaged to try and support a third life. I imagine that this won't change. I've already accepted that both of us are deemed for a life of reconstruction, an uphill battle that will always present excruciating challenges. Each feat will just result in another obstacle. Even if Peeta does heal to a degree where he is confident enough to reallocate his attention elsewhere, I don't believe I'll ever reach that point.

I hate that things will have to end that way. That I won't be able to provide Peeta with the child that he's always yearned for. If he manages to still love me even after I've denied him of this one pleasure, he will have sacrificed everything for me.

I don't know how I'll be able to live with myself after that.

As I stand before Peeta, I take in his flattening eyes as he watches my own expression contort.

"What's upsetting you, love?"

There it is. The term of endearment again. It should repel me, I suppose, but something about it takes a hammer to my walls and makes me ache to give him a response.

"I don't want her, Peeta."

His face falls. "What do you mean?"

"I don't… I can't have a child. I know how happy it would make you, Peeta. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry I can't give that to you."

His eyes widen, his brow raising. "Katniss, hold on. I'm not asking you to have a child."

But he didn't have to ask. In the way that he stared at that portrait of the girl in my dream, it was irrefutable that he craved her. Or another child.

"But you looked so happy when I told you I dreamt about her, and when you drew her…"

His palm trails up to my cheek, his thumb grazing over the skin under my eye. "We are only eighteen years old, trying to survive the aftershock of the revolution. You and I both know that we have a lot of recovery left to fight through. I hardly think this is the time to have a child, don't you?"

At least we see eye to eye on this. "You seemed to excited with the idea…"

He looks up at me through a sad smile, fingers braiding gently in my hair.

"I'm beyond elated with the idea of having a future with you, Katniss. After pining after a girl for over a decade now, it's pretty damn exciting to realize that, for the first time, she wants me back. And of course, the idea of a baby is just… it's _wonderful_, love. But there's a time and place for everything and I'm smart enough to know that this is neither the time nor the place for that. I understand that you don't want kids, and don't think that I'm going to go down without a fight on that one, but for now, I want you and only you. I need nothing else."

I only realize that I'm crying once Peeta's thumb brushes something wet across my cheek. He wraps his sturdy biceps around my waist, pressing his head into my collar.

"I love you. I love you so much, Katniss Everdeen." I hear him chuckle, the sound muffled against my tunic. "I don't think I'll ever get tired of telling you that."

He doesn't ask me to say it back to him, and I'm appreciative of his consideration. I suppose I'll be able to reciprocate his emotions to a much greater degree one day than I do now. But for the time being, my mind is still muddled when it comes to sorting through stances—everything with Peeta is so new, so fresh, so unfamiliar. My world's been upturned radically since last night. I'm still standing here, waiting for the chips to fall where they may before attempting to rearrange them. Allowing myself to open up and let Peeta in was a magnificent feat of its own, and synchronizing my affections with his will be an additional one to conquer.

And I will save that for another day.

At the moment, I'm "with" Peeta. The definition may be ambivalent and unsettled, but nevertheless, we are together. I am his, he is mine.

And for now, that will suffice.

* * *

_Thanks for reading! As always, leave a review if you can. I'm assuming I won't update for a couple of days as usual, so on that note, have a very merry Christmas, or Kwanzaa, or if you don't celebrate anything then just have a lovely holiday season altogether!_

_Until next time :)_


	13. Healing Hands

_Hey all! Sorry I couldn't get this uploaded any sooner—I finished it midday on Christmas but the website wasn't cooperating very well with me. Well, whatever the matter, here it is now. And on the bright side, I've already written a lot of the next chapter so that should be up soon(ish)! But for now, here you go: another relatively pleasant chapter, as most seem to be nowadays._

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing!**_

* * *

Summertime has reached its excruciating pinnacle when construction on the bakery has finally come to a close. And it happens just in time—the heat these days is sweltering, almost unbearable in its magnitude. Those poor crew workers have been losing steam day after day.

But finally, after several long months of exertion, a new shop rests at the edge of the market. It sports cream paneling with a warm yellow trim, a grand window spanning beside the front door, revealing an impressive display of cakes. The bakery itself dons no name; after various peals of laughter ensued from my farcical suggestion to either call it "Mellark's Buns" or "The Peeta Pocket," Peeta gave up and decided to leave it untitled.

That's how most of the rulings went pertaining to the bakery. Although I tried to inject myself into choices made, Peeta respectfully declined most of my input. Maybe that was for the best. My expertise involves hunting and climbing trees, not organizing an entrepreneurship. However, while the final hints of construction were being completed, and Peeta was bouncing around the shop, trying to tackle every problem that arose on his own, he allowed me one pleasure: I got to arrange the window display. He provided the goods that would be exhibited, and from there, I let my creativity run wild.

Unfortunately, creativity has never been my strongest suit. And the kindhearted Peeta Mellark was too considerate to remind me of that little drawback. So the next day upon return, I noticed that the exposé in the front window had been adjusted into a much more attractive arrangement. I was far from surprised and feigned oblivion.

Alongside his terrible decision to train Haymitch on the register to man down the fort if necessary, Peeta hired a second set of hands about a month before the bakery was to be completed. When he hesitantly told me who it was, I swallowed my immediate surprise and mustered a weak smile. "Oh. That's… that's nice of you, Peeta."

"He's a really good kid, and I know he doesn't have much here… really anything, for the matter." And then he smirks. "Not to mention, he's certainly less stubborn than his older brother. I'm sure he'll be a wonderful help."

I feel apprehension course through my veins just at the mention of Rory Hawthorne's older brother. These days, I try to push every memory of Gale from my mind. Even though he'd been so significant to me in the past, I find that fishing through my head to surface thinking of him only results in sudden fits of anxiety. Sae tells me that she sees him on TV sometimes, doing propos for the new government at the Capitol. She says he seems to be doing well. And while I am in part grateful that he's stumbled upon success, the thought of him brings me to Prim, and then to the steps at the President's mansion, the two blonde braids, and then the bombs…

I pray that my conversations with Rory, which will be growing in frequency with him as Peeta's right hand man, will not entail the same anguish.

For opening week, I go on hiatus from my daily ventures into the woods to assist with the bakery as well. Since the moment that Peeta flips the _closed_ sign on the door to its opposite face, people flood through the threshold unremittingly. Just as many of them are familiar to me as those that are not. Greasy Sae is among the first to enter; to my surprise, Mae stops by mid-day. While purchasing a blueberry scone, she proceeds to tell me how lovely the bakery turned out and how wonderful Peeta has done with it. Then, with an uninhibited laugh, she lets me know how lucky I am to have him. She says this all in good spirits, not a hint of jealousy in her tone. I thank her just as Peeta rushes by to greet her, no warmth lacking from his harried tone, before attending to another customer.

Peeta's stress, which has been rising steadily since the final stretch before opening day, seems to peak right off the scales now. Even though he has me to run the register (rather clumsily, might I add—but thankfully, people are incessantly forgiving), a surprisingly sober Haymitch to help govern the ovens, and a very energetic and enthusiastic Rory to facilitate the actual baking, I can tell Peeta feels as if he needs to lug around the entirety of the responsibility on his own. He's trying to do too many things at once; manage the counter by helping eager customers decide what to try, while supervising Rory and Haymitch to verify that the baking is accomplished properly, all while sitting down with clients to assist them in ordering cakes, pastries, and pies for celebrations. As he flutters around me in the bakery, always trying to hold a conversation with at least one customer while his hands are filled with samples or bags of goods, I can't help but notice how much older he already looks. He reminds me of his father; still gentle and kind, but his eyes have aged a thousand years. I don't tell him this, of course. He already is well aware that he's near his breaking point. He does not need my confirmation.

When the clock strikes five, we flip the _open_ sign on the door of the bakery back around, quickly assisting the last remaining customers in the store. Then, it is just the four of us: Peeta, Rory, Haymitch, and me. Haymitch pops open a bottle of booze in celebration but is the only one to help himself to it. We all exhaustedly slump around the table in the back, sweaty but content, eating whatever we can. Haymitch is the one to keep the conversation spinning with his recurrent snide remarks. This engages me, of course, as most of his attacks are directed my way, and Rory eagerly jumps in where he can.

I find that even though Rory resembles his brother physically, with the same chestnut hair, silver eyes, and pronounced frame, there's some attribute of his that distinctly sets him apart from Gale. Maybe it's his smile. Although Gale wasn't _always_ disgruntled per se, he seemed to have a stalwart hostility behind his intentions more often than not. He survived off his hatred for the Capitol, and like me, he had a fiery, untiring soul.

Rory has always seemed much more gentle, like Peeta. His eyes carry less weight, his smile more frequent. Maybe it's because Gale had been exposed to the depravity of the world he lived in for much longer than Rory. Rory is still very young—a boy in most respects—and he has the virtue of one as well. No matter the reason, his relatively untroubled spirit distinguishes him from his older brother and makes it merely possible, if not fairly easy, for me to coexist with him.

The whole while that Rory, Haymitch and I are throwing around impish mockery, Peeta sits at my side, relatively still. He holds a glass of water at his lips, pressing the bottom one against the cup without taking a drink. His eyes are focused somewhere far beyond, and I watch him growing tenser.

That's when I know it's about to happen.

Peeta's hallucinations have been thinning in occurrence, but they have not completely disappeared. We've come to realize that stress is what triggers them as his mind delves deeper and deeper into taxing matters. I combat them as they come—it's essential for me to remain calm during these episodes of his, because at least _one_ of us has to maintain composure in order to anchor the other.

But I've never had to contend with one when there are other people around.

My mind flashes as my body runs cold. I need to do something, and I need to do whatever that something is _now._

I don't think before I speak.

My chair squeals across the tile, and I find myself standing, attracting two pairs of startled gazes belonging to Haymitch and Rory. "Peeta, can you come outside with me?" Although one is intended, there is no question in my tone. In my urgency, my request sounds more like a bark than a plea, and I fear my harshness will push him over right here. In front of Haymitch and Rory.

Oh god, they wouldn't know what to do if he lapsed.

Thankfully, Peeta seems to acknowledge that he's slipping. He begins to carry out actions that he knows will at least prolong the beginning of the episode, if not dull it when it hits. He stands, too. His hands clench in tense, trembling fists, his jaw hardened.

The sun has reached its point in the sky where the entire world around us is enshrouded in bronze light as we emerge from the back door of the bakery. This door faces a vast cluster of trees, leaving us alone in the heat of the afternoon.

"Peeta, it's okay. You made it through your first day. The worst part is over."

Immediately, assurances are pouring out of my mouth as he stalks a considerable distance away from the bakery, pacing back and forth in the course grass. I follow him, attempting to grab on to him _somewhere_ in order to secure him in reality, but his movements are so skittish and wild that it's difficult to steady him. I grasp onto a wrist just for him to wring free.

"I can't handle this!" he coughs, his eyes focused on the ground, and then his hands are gripping his blonde curls.

"Yes, you can. You can do this, Peeta."

"I'm not strong enough, Katniss! I can't… I can't _do_ this—"

And then his entire body grows rigid, his eyes clenching shut. I watch him in horror as he begins to coil, contort. I throw my arms around his broad shoulders, but he dislodges me almost instantaneously. I stumble backwards and my hands catch the worse of my fall. I'm up in an instant, unfazed.

But this time, when I grab his wrists, my grasp is sturdier than metal. I refuse to let him go.

"Peeta, it's okay. You're okay. I'm here for you. You're not alone, you're not alone. You're alright."

His fingers wrap around my wrists and I feel his nails digging into the flesh that stretches over them as he attempts to extricate himself from my hold. But I will not back down. Instead, I lean in closer, my mind attempting desperately to ignore the pain shooting through my palms, my arms. I do the only thing I can, the only thing that ever seems to triumph.

My lips part with a steadied inhale, and impulsively, I begin to sing to him. My voice pours from my lungs, soft and subduing despite the struggle of stilling him. I imagine how bizarre this scene must look if someone were to view it; a small woman corralling a rather imposing man, singing to him as he thrashes. The pain in my wrists only magnifies as he grapples them harder and harder. I suppose that if this continues for a minute longer, he'll have broken the skin by then.

But that does not matter at the moment. The only thing that is relevant is combatting his episode; right now, he needs me. It is essential for my focus to be trained on him and him alone.

So I sing. I sing through the sting in my arms, though the tensed muscles and strenuous grip. Peeta is still trembling, but his rigidity declines, and within a few moments he has released his clasp on me and has crumpled to his knees in the grass. I am holding him. He is crying into my shoulder as my arms wrap around his shoulders, clutching him to me. My fingers slip through his curls.

"It's okay, Peeta. It's alright."

He chokes out my name and nothing more as his own biceps tighten around me, squeezing me to him.

We remain like this for several minutes, and I'm aware that Rory and Haymitch have probably invented ample degrading scenarios to explain our absence, but that doesn't matter. I try to push that from my mind. As of now, Peeta is broken. It is my responsibility to pick up all of his scattered shards and piece them back together like he does too often for me.

And so I do. I comfort him with whispers, with gentle touches. I kiss his ear, his jaw, his neck, his nose, and finally his lips. Although he doesn't melt under my kiss like usual, he's not utterly unresponsive.

Then, he begins to apologize. His admissions are profuse, repetitive. _I'm sorry, Katniss. I'm so sorry._ I assure him that it is alright and shield my wrists from him, but the act alone has caught his attention. He demands to see them.

I cooperate.

As I pull my hands from behind my back to lay in front of him, he breaks down in front of me all over again. His thumbs run over the crescent-shaped punctures in the skin, some only pink from pressure while others ooze a few drops of crimson. Again, his apologies drench me, and it seems that nothing I say can soothe him. He has transformed from the expended, aged owner of the baker into a frail little boy. Even though Peeta is technically an adult, he is still exceptionally young for what he's attempting to do, being merely eighteen. And he is trying too desperately to carry the entire world on his shoulders.

It has finally crushed him.

Eventually, he regains enough composure to escort me back into the bakery. Ignoring questioning glances from the two males at the table, we sit down and finish our meal. Apart from feeble attempts to convince Haymitch and Rory—and even ourselves, I suppose—that everything is alright, Peeta and I remain in suffocating silence.

After we come home that night, both of us too exhausted to attempt to fill the evening with idle activities, we retreat upstairs. He showers first, and when he's returned to the bedroom, I then follow suit. But after I've stripped from my sweaty work clothes, I've decided that a bath is much more necessitated. I run the water, watching as steam floats into the already humid air before lowering myself into the clear pool.

I lay back, allowing the remnants of this day to fizzle from my sticky skin. My mind is expended and runs blank. The only thing that fills my head is the sensation of scalding water against my nearly numb body and the diluted sting of raw wrists.

I doesn't occur to me that I've spent roughly half an hours submerged in the bath until a light rapping echoes from the door.

"Katniss?"

His voice whisks me back down to reality, and I feel myself start at the softness in his tone.

"Yes?" The water around me splashes as I attempt to steady myself.

"Did you fall in?"

Even through his tired, jaded intonation, the minute twinge of humor lets a slight grin free on my lips.

"It's possible." And then, I hear myself continue, "You may have to rescue me."

I surprise even myself with that last invitation, and I'm thankful that he's still behind the door so that he can't see my abrupt blush. Despite spending night after night curled up against Peeta, many of those encounters brimming with passionate kisses, I've remained relatively modest in his presence. Although I'd been irritated when he teased me playfully about my purity in the days leading up to the Quarter Quell, he was pretty on the mark.

"…Are you serious?"

He's just as surprised as I am.

But the declaration has already been vocalized, and it cannot be retracted. "As serious as I'll ever be." My tone illustrates my defeat. What am I supposed to say—_Wait, no, I take it back, Peeta. Sorry, you can't come in; stay away from me._ Despite my precipitous sense of insecurity at the idea of Peeta waltzing in here while I'm completely exposed, I remember that, especially after today, he needs company. I'm not going to deny him of his merited right to be comforted.

As he cautiously opens the door, he pledges, "I'll keep my eyes closed, alright?" But by the time he says it, I've tucked my knees into my chest, still submerged fully in the water while shielding myself as sufficiently as I can manage.

He halts once he's entered the bathroom, palm clasped tightly over his eyes. "Marco?"

I giggle. "Polo." He takes a step nearer and lowers himself beside the tub, gripping the side to steady his blind decent. Once he's on the floor, he turns around so that his back is against the porcelain rim of the bath, and his hand falls to his side.

"I thought you drowned," he begins, his tone bizarrely lighthearted.

"I may have if you hadn't knocked. I was so far out of it."

He prods, "Asleep?"

"Just lost in thought." My response is quiet.

My eyes get lost in his golden curls; I selfishly revel in the fact that I can watch him all I want while he can't peek at all. I observe his head bowing in guilt.

"I'm sorry, Katniss," he murmurs almost inaudibly. Once again, his resolve dissimilates to that of a wounded child, and my heart wrenches in empathy.

I shake my head before I remember he can't see it. "Don't be. It's not your fault."

"I hurt you," he tosses back immediately, his head raising and cocking to the side, so that maybe he can see my face through his peripheral vision.

"You had an episode. It happens, Peeta. There's not much you can do about it."

His palms rise to his face, rubbing over his cheeks and his eyes exasperatedly. "It needs to stop. I can't keep doing this, hurting you without being able to control it."

"It's been getting better—"

"But 'better' is not good enough, Katniss." His voice does not carry a hint of anger; rather, all I can hear is a piercing ache, like a whimpering puppy. "It will _never_ be good enough until the day I have hurt you for the last time is over."

_That day may never come._ "Stop beating yourself up. You were under so much stress today. Anyone in your position would've cracked, too—and I forgive you, alright? Don't tell me that means nothing."

His hands ball into fists and he lowers his cheeks onto them.

"Maybe I should just ditch the bakery. I don't think I can handle it."

I want to smack him upside the head, but I determine that doing so would _probably_ not help my case. "Peeta, the fact that you're able to open up your own bakery is such a huge milestone in and of itself. I get it, you're not completely healed. But you've made so much progress, and don't tell me _that_ means nothing, either. Sure, you have a ways to go, but so do I. And you congratulate me every single step I make, so I think it's particularly hypocritical of you to think that all of the tiny steps _you_ make aren't worth celebrating. And this isn't even a tiny step, Peeta. You just began the next chapter of your life."

I am far from harsh in my spiel, keeping it matter-of-fact. His face, which is turned just slightly in my direction so that I can catch the tips of his golden eyelashes as they span out, bears a sad smile.

"But… I'm only eighteen. I'm barely an adult." He rubs his eyes. "I just don't think I'm ready yet, love."

I shrug, the sound of rippling water resonating from my sides. "We never do."

"Do what?"

My finger lifts from the pool, tracing a line across the back of his neck. A thin wet stripe trails across his skin, and I see goose bumps bead underneath them.

"Think we're ready for progress," I respond breathily, my gaze losing its focus. "It's only after we can see the changes that have resulted from our decisions that we realize these decisions were so imperative in the first place. Take my choice to let you in as an example. I thought for month after month that I wasn't ready to open up to you, and I tried so damn hard to put it off. But on the night I had that awful nightmare, I realized that I couldn't hold off on advancement any longer. If I wanted to heal, I realized that trusting you was a missing link I couldn't go without. And looking back on it, it was one of the best choices I've ever made." At my side, his shoulders lower in relaxation as he releases a soft sigh. "This whole bakery concept is a lot less romantic, but it works the same. If you want to even attempt to lead a normal life again, regardless of what constitutes as 'normal,' you have to do this. You'll be no more ready in a month, or a year, or a decade than you are now. This bakery _will_ be good for you, Peeta, after you've made it over the initial obstacle of getting through this first week. But sitting around all day, filling your time with painting and baking for two—or occasionally three—people is going to get you absolutely nowhere in the grand scheme of things. So this bakery is necessary for you to grow."

He raises a hand over his shoulders, and without explanation, I know what he desires. I lift my own hand from the surface of the bath to rest it in his. His fingers lace around my dripping ones, squeezing.

"I guess you're right. It's just… it's overwhelming, Katniss."

"Maybe this isn't a fair comparison, but I was pretty anxious when I decided to let you in, too. And look where it got us."

I hear him chuckle. "Where _did_ it get us? Sitting in a bathroom, one of us naked, and the other too afraid to look?"

My hand pulses in his. "Sounds about right to me."

* * *

After the first business week has been conquered, Peeta begins to unwind substantially. Even the second day was far more digestible than the first, as he begins to realize that not everything can be under his control.

It's a strange transformation; the Peeta I know at home is far different from the Peeta at the bakery. The entrepreneur Peeta is exceptionally more dominant than the one I've grown fond of intimately; although, this alter-ego of his is not all that bad. Even in his confident governance over the bakery, he is still gentle and considerate. I just find it amusing how assertive he can be at the shop, which is a trait that escapes him when it's just us two.

Alone, he allows me to take the reins. He relinquishes his power voluntarily, returning home to concede to my stubborn guise. At the bakery, it is me who willfully renounces control, as the last thing I want to do is put him under more stress than need be. This fluctuation in behavior on both of our behalves is just as peculiar as it is amusing, but it fits our pattern without issue, so I don't question it.

Once the situation at the bakery seems to be under control, I resolve that my work there is done for the time being. Haymitch, with a degree of sobriety that is quite uncharacteristic of him, regularly runs the ovens and the register. Rory is in charge of preparations and the counter if necessary, as he is far more personable than Haymitch. Peeta still does it all, but his supervision is less and less essential as the days pass. There are several recipes that only he is allowed to touch, and he is also the sole cake-decorator on the job. Every ounce of creativity that arises from that place surely is due to Peeta's hands.

Now that they've reached some sustainable equilibrium, and I've stepped down as an employee, my afternoons suddenly become wide open again. I know what I must do the first day that my time slots have been freed.

For the first time since that frightening mishap over the winter, I carry my bow with me as I trek into the woods. This morning, Peeta left before I did, parting with a quick kiss; so, he doesn't know what I'm embarking on. I fitfully consider that notifying him on my latest mission would've been ideal, considering what happened last time. But I'm a big girl. I can handle myself.

Hopefully.

This particular morning is less blistering than many of the others have been, making for a perfect day to hunt. In the shaded forest, the air is even more welcoming.

I begin with practice.

The tree that had become my second home waits for me as I arrive, and without wasting time, I prep my bow with an arrow, pointing directly at a knot in the bark.

I figure I should work on desensitizing myself to the movement before I attempt to apply it to a real hunt. It's the flexing of the muscles, the release of the bow, the sickening _whoosh_ of air that yanks me painfully back to the war and the games where I had slaughtered too many people, guilty and innocent all the same. It's the action, it's the reflex that torments me.

And so that is what I focus on.

Thus, when I set my stance several yards away from the base of the tree, cock my bow, drawing back the arrow, I shift my mind to think of what I told Peeta just a week ago. _It's only after we can see the changes that have resulted from our decisions that we realize these decisions were so imperative in the first place._ This is something that I should do, that I _must_ do, in order to progress. Despite not seeing the immediate reward in it now. Even though the standard for "normalcy" is poorly defined and fairly relative, if I want to obtain whatever it is, I have to do this. Hunting is my niche. Without it, I'm nothing but an irritatingly adamant misfit. I have no additional talents to speak of, no other prides to note.

And just like how I told Peeta that he couldn't let himself wither away at home, only executing activities to pass time, I can't keep pretending that sitting out in the woods for hours on end does much more than dull my nerves. Although setting snares is a step in the right direction, it's not enough. Hunting is both my release and my vocation.

So, as I pull back the string of my bow with cautious force, I focus severely on the action itself, on the movement. The moment I release my grip, launching the bow at the tree, I feel my breath hitch and an unpleasant shock radiate through my system. But it is significantly more stultified than when I tried the same thing this winter.

And, to my pleasure, I see that the arrow has only missed the center of the knot on the tree by an inch.

_Not too shabby, Katniss._

I tread to the trunk of the tree, retrieving my arrow and relocating to an alternative angle, aiming for a different knot in the bark. My focus is just as resolved as the prior attempt. This time, when my breath slows and I draw back the shaft, I release it with a far more muted shock.

And this time, I hit the knot spot-on.

I repeat this process several times, over and over again until the movement itself does not frighten me like it had earlier. My aim is still impeccable, even after all these months. The only difference is that much of my focus needs to be redirected from the prey to the actual task at hand. I can't let my guard down; not yet, at least.

The sun has passed its paramount peak in the clouded blue overhead when I decide to graduate from shooting trees to real game. My throat feels dry and cracked with anxiety, leading me to swallow hard, but I tell myself over and over again what I should know innately.

_I need to do this. I can do this._

* * *

When I return from my trip, game bag slung over my shoulder as it usually is, an unfamiliar, complacent grin has marked itself on my lips.

Peeta greets me as usual with a warm, short kiss, and a quick relay of the menu for the evening. He leaves me to shower and I leave him with my bag to pick out whatever can be incorporated into the meal; everything else, he salts and freezes.

As I shower off quickly, washing the dirt from my skin and leaves from my hair, I can't help but wonder if he'll notice the difference. If he'll notice that the rabbits and squirrels I've delivered have been shot through the eye, not caught on a snare.

After I've washed off and changed into sweatpants and a t-shirt, I bounce down the stairs two at a time. My heart is racing enigmatically as I round into the dining room and pass to the kitchen.

Peeta is standing at the sink, holding something in his hands, his body motionless. I, too, stop in my tracks and stand in wait.

He must've heard me coming, for he turns around, one of the rabbits I returned with in his palm. His eyes are wide as he takes me in—not angry, not distressed. Rather, his blue orbs are filled with both concern and wonder.

"Did you think I wouldn't notice?" he whispers calmly across the kitchen.

I smirk. "I was hoping you would."

As the grin breaks over my chapped lips, a reciprocal one peppers over his. He gazes at me in both awe and fulfilment, and within a second the rabbit has been dropped back into the bag, Peeta has rushed up to me. I have met him in the middle. And our arms have encircled each other, his lips finding mine.

"I'm so proud of you," he laughs in between kisses. My feet are lifted from the floor as he twirls me in the air. "I had no idea that… that you would be able to do… to do _that_ again—"

"Neither did I," I giggle back through wet eyes. His hands find my cheeks and he gazes down at me with pride and devotion. This is how I pictured him looking at me if I were to tell him I wanted to have his children—not if I returned home from my first legitimate hunt.

But I'm not complaining.

And suddenly, he's released me. He flits around the kitchen, tugging open cabinets and shuffling through cupboards. Before I can ask, he explains, "We need to celebrate."

Once he's found what he was looking for, he turns to face me. The burgundy bottle rests in one large baker's hand, two wine glasses in the other. I can vaguely remember how bitter he'd been after learning that I'd gotten drunk with Haymitch, and so the gesture seems oddly out of place.

"Peeta, it's just a hunt."

He shakes his head, leaning over to kiss me once more. His lips feel like velvet above mine, luring me in. "Not just the hunt. Katniss, look at us. Look where we're at right now. A little under a year ago, we'd both washed up here, utterly shattered. You were having constant nightmares and my episodes were just as bad as ever. And we couldn't even talk to each other. But we've… we've grown so much. You can hunt again. I have a bakery. And… we're together, ready to face whatever challenges may arise. I fell so… so _whole_ again, Katniss."

Well, _that_ is reason to celebrate.

So tonight, we take our dinner to the patio out back. The sky has cleared, leaving a vast canvas of pastel pink and orange hues painted above us. When we're finished, we set our plates inside and snatch a comforter from beside the hearth and slip back to the terrace. We walk some fifty-odd yards from the house and lay out the blanket; I have the wine and glasses in hand, and Peeta is carrying an old stereo.

Once we're seated, he toys with the knobs until a crackly song begins to resonate from the speakers. It's soft, bearing an antiquated quality, subduing us as we pour the wine.

"To recovery," he toasts, lifting his glass in the air.

"To recovery."

_Clink_.

We rest in the waning light, the palliative summer breeze whispering kisses over our skin. My fingers pull at the band at the end of my braid and then comb through the plaits until my hair ripples freely over my shoulders.

Peeta watches me as I do so.

"You're so beautiful, Katniss."

As I lift the fragile glass to my lips, heat blooms in my cheeks. My eyes bashfully fall to the blanket. I remember the first time he told me that after our return—I'd come to his house for dinner one evening, inexplicably dolled up for the night. He'd whispered the same compliment, and immediately after, his face reddened in embarrassment. It was painfully obvious that he hadn't intended for that to be vocal.

But now, as he gazes at me in the golden hours of the evening, his conviction rings clear. He smiles at me with poise and self-assurance, charming me all over again.

We drink just a few sips of the wine before setting our glasses to the side. He is the first to stretch out on the blanket, a strong forearm behind his head, the other extended to accommodate my shoulders. I snuggle up beside him as we watch the brilliant sunset fade into a violet dusk. Stars begin to flicker in the deep navy dome over us, dotting the heavens, promising us that there is much more out there than we know. This life seems unlimited in its salutation.

Once the night has solidified around us, filled with the faint ebb of the music as it resonates from the speakers, I turn to Peeta to find him watching me with eyes that glow like moons of their own. Even though this degree of passion between us is relatively foreign in its recentness, it is not unwanted or out of place. Some mornings, I struggle to understand the origin of his love, but never do I reject it anymore. His unrelenting devotion is what carries me through the gloomiest of days.

"Katniss?" His voice catches in the wisp of the breeze.

"Mm?"

His voice is silky, magnetic, drawing me closer to him on the blanket. "Do you want to dance with me?"

My mind flashes back to the party at the Capitol at the conclusion of our Victory Tour. Then, every movement had been for show; I felt plastic and suffocated.

But now, my chest rises and falls at its own stride. There are no fetters on my actions. I am free to do as I please.

Nevertheless, my lip tucks under my teeth and I chew on it lightly. "I'm not a good dancer."

"Then let me teach you," he implores delicately.

Saying "no" to Peeta is something that becomes more difficult of a task as each day passes. And so, within the moment, we are up on our bare feet, plodding on the blanket as he holds my waist with one hand, enveloping my palm with the other. I clumsily drape my arm over his shoulder; he helps me sturdy and reposition it.

We maladroitly waltz to the faint song that wafts from the stereo—but of course, this ineptitude is solely because of me. Peeta is a natural at nearly everything he does, well-versed in a myriad of activities. Apparently, dancing is one of them. He helps guide me in the right direction with his feet and gentle touch. I step on him one too many times, but he only chuckles spryly at my missteps. We continue as if nothing has happened.

This dance is far unlike the one we shared at the Capitol. There, we'd stepped inexpressively, attempting to look happy while quietly conveying our disgust at the situation to each other. But now, we have no restraint. We move in full circles, laughing all the while; he lifts my hand to twirl me, and when I've spun the full way, I twist back into his arms. Now, we rock deliberately in small steps. My face is tilted up, our noses just inches apart.

A million thoughts bounce between our gazes, and countless words and sentence fragments that I ache to say bubble to my lips. But now, the silence is too peaceful to be broken. Instead, I press my head to his chest, the reverberation of his heartbeat pumping faintly in my ear. My eyes automatically flutter closed as I inhale the scent of him; cinnamon, berries, a little bit of oregano.

The song that glides through the air elicits an odd memory from me. I can't remember where I've heard it, but delicately, I hum along to the melody. Peeta's grasp on me intensifies as he kisses my hair. We pace like this, side to side in elusive loops, my vocal folds purring the tune gently to my lover's chest. _I'll carry your world_. The melody embraces us tenderly.

When the song fades in the summer night around us, Peeta's hands slide from my waist to my back, massaging tender circles around my shoulder blades. Again, his lips find my temple, commanding my chin to raise so that our mouths meet softly in the middle. This kiss is not overtly fervent; rather, it is slow, considerate, and affectionate all the same. I suppose I will never grow tired of kissing Peeta, as his lips donate so much promise of security and comfort when molded to mine. How I had lived for so long without feeling this impenetrable longing, I will never understand.

The world around me melts away as we move harmoniously, fingers braiding in hair, breaths hitching, tender gasps chiming in the merciful evening. When I'm with Peeta, all wrapped up together in our absolving, intimate moments, I'm allowed to put my fears and reservations behind me, even if it's just for a few brief minutes at a time. He makes me forget that I've ever had a reason to be unhappy in the first place.

This dandelion of mine, unwavering and beautiful in every deed he accomplishes, has presented a promise of rebirth that I could've unearthed nowhere else. This vow rests solely with him.

For the first time that I can remember, the hope that generates in my core is not stifled, not repressed with fear or with burden. This faith courses through my veins liberally as Peeta embraces me, rocking me back and forth in our delicate pirouette underneath the stars. I am not afraid of the future any longer.

I have my woods, I have shelter, and I have my best friend.

I am healing at his hand.

And so, tonight, when he whispers underneath the diamond-studded sky that he loves me, a delicate flame that ripples in my chest begins to hint, leading me to wonder if I love him, too.

* * *

_Yay! I like writing happy chapters. I suppose cliffhangers help the story's stats a bit more but I don't like leaving you guys hanging too much. So, once again, we have fluff!_

_Now, I have some questions for you guys. First of all, at this rate, this story is going to go on forever and ever—which I have no problem with. I could write this story until the end of time because of how in love with the characters I am. Surprisingly, I got a lot of positive feedback on my attempt to illustrate this whole slow burn/PTSD struggle, but unfortunately, that takes a lot of time. And I've already passed 50k words without getting through much plot. I could keep going at this pace and end up having this fic reach, say, 200k words—I would have no problem writing that much, because I really want to write through the epilogue, which is about a twenty-year span from what I've already covered. Another option is that I could break this up into two stories—one, where I illustrate Peeta and Katniss's struggle to recover and to love each other in the meantime, and the second one about Katniss's pregnancies, their children, and their battle to be the best they can be for these kids of theirs and provide them with the safest life possible. I'm not too fond of that idea (creating separate fanfics), but if you guys seem to like it, I'll go ahead and do it. Or I could just do summary chapters, where instead of zooming in on many cases with lots of dialogue (which is sort of what I do), I could discuss Katniss and Peeta's thought processes as they meet milestones and sometimes relapse. It'll go quicker that way without me really eliminating important ideas, it just sort of alters my writing. So, what do you think on that?_

_And for the second (more awkward) issue: What do you want to read about pertaining to Peeta and Katniss's sex life? Of course, since they have children, they're going to have to… well, be intimate. This fic is rated Teen, and I know I have some younger readers, so when I include that whole segment (which I'm planning on doing as is), I'll have to err on the side of caution and be sort of vague. What do you guys want to read about that, if you want to see it happen at all? Sorry if this is awkward, I just realized that you guys may have different views than me, and I don't want to offend anyone, but I also want you guys to be able to read what you want. So, what should I do? (1) Keep it teen and be relatively ambiguous, (2) hardly address their intimacy at all, or (3) switch it to a mature rating?_

_Sorry for wasting so much word count on my little spiel. I just want you guys to have a say in what I'm writing since this story is just as much for you as it is for me. I promise, all voices will be heard, all opinions considered, and I'll try to make the most people happy that I possibly can._

_Anyway, thanks for the read! Please tell me what you're thinking, and have a fabulous holiday season!_


	14. Fire

_I wanted to thank you all who gave me feedback last chapter, especially with what you wanted for the upcoming chapters! It seemed to be a fairly unanimous consensus that I continue writing at the pace I have been, even if it ends up being 200k words. Feel free to keep giving me feedback on my pacing, though, just to keep me in line. The readers who have stuck with me this far seem to enjoy the detail, so that's what I'll keep doing, but if it gets too unbearably slow/painful, let me know! I don't want to bore anyone to sleep!_

_Now, in pertinence to the second topic that I asked your opinions on, I've decided what to do but since I'm a terrible person, I'm not going to tell you yet. You'll just have to wait and see. ;) I think I've come up with an idea that'll make the largest amount of readers happy. That being said, we still have a few chapters to go before THAT level of intimacy even becomes a real thing, so just hold on tight!  
_

_After much writing and re-writing, I finally pumped this chapter out. It's much shorter than the original version I wrote, but the other version was sporadic and jumpy and not entirely coherent. I had a few scenes in the other one that I'd like to keep, but I'll probably just incorporate them later. I'm a little disappointed to have cut so much, but I don't want to give you guys bad quality just so I can write a few random scenarios that don't really fit with the mood. _

_Well, without further ado, here is another chapter from the lovely Peeta Mellark's POV. :)_

**_Disclaimer: The foundation of this story and most characters are property of Suzanne Collins._**

* * *

The letter comes on the first notably chilly afternoon of the fall; the sky, which reigns overcast in its low grey veil is more menacing than it has been for months. Leaves swirl up in turbines as I begin my daily march from the bakery back home for dinner. Haymitch trudges beside me, rubbing his palms fervently together to generate heat, puffing shallow breaths over them.

"Who decided that winter was starting early this year?" he gripes, his grumble of a voice muffled against his hands.

My eyes involuntarily flicker to the tree line a hundred yards from the dirt road we traverse; I'd left particularly early this morning to get a head start on a cake order. Katniss was still draped in one of my larger t-shirts at the time I parted with a quick kiss. I hope she dressed warmly.

As if to only magnify my concern, a hostile gust of wind swamps us, icy and unforgiving, pinching at my already rosy cheeks.

Haymitch has caught my wandering gaze.

"She's fine, Peeta," he drags, his tone carrying a stifled irritation. "She's a big girl, remember?"

"I know that," I bite back. And of course I do—I'm the one who spends hour after hour at her side each night and morning, enshrouded in her dynamic prowess. Apart from those gloomy evenings where her memories of Prim and Finnick and all those who she's lost suffocate her, Katniss is beautifully dominant and often carries herself with more confidence than I do. Most days, she is as fearless, as fierce as the girl that I used to admire from afar before the games twistedly brought us together.

But, of course, those gloomy evenings full of unwelcome, unpleasant recollections can't be disregarded. On nights like those, her ferocity steeply declines as she unwinds before my eyes. _That_ Katniss, that helpless, defeated girl with no flame, is the Katniss that I actively worry over. If she should deteriorate to that level of brokenness while I'm away, the possible outcomes are not stacked in her favor. Although, collectively, Katniss is leaps and bounds more contented than she was just under a year ago upon return to District 12, she still reverts every now and then, regardless of how aggressively I care for her and try to protect her from the world around her. Occasionally, I wake to her screaming out her sister's name into the black, and regardless of how tightly I embrace her or how gently I kiss her, she cannot be consoled.

And maybe it's just the cold that revives that unwanted recollection of the night where Haymitch and I had to go out looking for her, but either way, the image flames clearly behind my eyes, sending my heart rate in alarming acceleration. I remember stumbling through the barren forest, the bitter air capturing my shallow breaths, crying out her name. Every tear that escaped from the corner of my eye was frozen, pinching my face. I was numb.

I remember the devastating fear that I'd lost her. Even just the memory in and of itself rocks me to my core. The Katniss on that night was the inconsolable, shattered Katniss. If she were to revert again…

I feel my mind beginning to slither away from my command. _No. I can't do this here._ I haven't had an episode without her around to moor me to reality in months. As much as I fear hurting her during my hallucinations, I know that I need her.

Haymitch seems to pick up on my edginess. Half-sober Haymitch appears to be the most attentive; he has just enough alcohol in his blood to keep him from being a jittery, skittish wreck, but not so much that he's inundated in his own falsified universe. I've come to realize that having him around the bakery is just as beneficial for his health as it is for my stress as now he has something to at least partially clean up for on a daily basis. Although he always has a flask accessible to him, he drinks significantly less than he used to. Maybe he just needed the company. And I'm sure that not having to fear watching two of your own young mentees get slaughtered every year in the Hunger Games, regardless of the actions taken to protect them, also eases the compulsion.

"Hey, hey. It's okay, alright?" This time, his assurance is more considerate.

My hands ball at my sides as I attempt to keep myself grounded. "I know. I know she's alright. It's just… the _cold_… it reminds me of last winter—"

"That's not going to happen again. She's comfortable again with her habit of killing small animals, God help us all. So you've got nothing to worry about."

I suppose not. Despite my poor excuse of a chuckle that ensues, my concern for her burns faintly in my chest, as I presume it always will.

We arrive at the Victor's Village soon after, our breath visibly swirling in the air as we exhale. I shudder at the thought that things will only grow colder before they can warm again. In attempt to distract my teeming mind and calm my nerves, my thoughts begin to tumble into pouring images of this upcoming winter. Long evenings by the fire (I miss those, as they've been harshly out-of-place this past summer due to the heat), hot chocolate, mint tea, the warm smell of rising dough wafting through the house. Blanket forts, wool socks, lots of cuddling. God, lots and _lots_ of cuddling.

As usual, I invite Haymitch to dinner as we pass by his house. And, as usual, he declines with a huff and departs with an unenthusiastic, fractional farewell to go tend to his miraculously living flock of geese.

I'm about to start up the steps to my front porch when my eye catches on some deviant movement. My gaze flickers to the side where I see a young man, sporting a blue windbreaker and a bulky cloth sack draped over one shoulder, pull open the metal flap of Katniss's mailbox that's planted at the end of her drive. He has an off-white envelope tucked between two gloved fingers.

Receiving mail is a fairly conventional achievement on Katniss's behalf. She frequently writes to Johanna and Annie, even to her mother on days where her resentment toward her apathy is dampened, and collects responses reasonably promptly. But Johanna, Annie, and Mrs. Everdeen know by this point in time that letters to Katniss will reach her faster if addressed to my mailbox, not hers. Even though we've avoided the formality of officially having her move in, she hasn't set foot in her own place for weeks.

So after the mailman has strayed from Katniss's drive, I curiously hasten to the postbox, popping it open. Inside rests a sole cream-colored envelope. Intrinsically, it looks no different from any other letter that Katniss has received—that is, until I see the stamp resting in the top right corner.

It's from the Capitol.

My fingers, bare and aching from the cold, heist it from the mailbox as my gaze streams over the name in the corner opposite the stamp.

As if it wasn't already wintry enough outside, the blood that courses through my veins turns to ice, my breath hitching in my throat.

_Gale Hawthorne._

What does he want with her? Why is he pursuing contact _now_, almost a full year since they've last spoken? A wave of stately protectiveness pans over my numbing skin, hints of suspicion and fear chiming in chorus. I attempt to justify my acrimony with the notion that the exchange may hurt Katniss, evoking suppressed memories, wielding her back into a state of anxiety and regression. After all, I could tell that warming back up to Rory was no easy feat for her, despite her feeble attempts to assume a compliant façade. And Rory wasn't even the one to have a hand in her sister's death.

Nevertheless, as I trudge through the overbearing gusts of wind, I can't help but cave and accept that a portion of my animosity must rise from this bubbling jealousy that resonates in my bones. Recollections of watching her watch _him_ with a form of affection I felt I never could merit flood my mind. Even if her allegiance rests with me now, those silver eyes of hers used to comb over him like they comb over me now. She may say she never loved him like that, but her expressions are far more readable than she's aware. She did love him at one point, and I'm not even sure that she loves _me_ now.

I yank open the front door of my home and stumble through the threshold, envelope still clutched sternly in one hand. The house rings with silence; Katniss has not returned yet, and surprisingly, I find myself sighing in relief. Muscles all over my body are trembling, my heart pounding wildly… I need to compose myself before she finds me.

My icy skin begs for warmth and I attempt to distract myself by lighting a fire in the hearth, but this action does not divert my attention whatsoever. After the bronzed flames are hungrily reaching up into the air above them, I shoot up, my entire body quaking as I pace back and forth, back and forth. My fingernails dig into my own palms.

Oh god, what am I going to do with Katniss? With the letter? I am smart enough to recognize that opening the letter before handing it to its rightful owner would _infuriate_ her. She might just shoot me through the eye with her bow and arrow—and praying for her to miss would be absolutely worthless, as her aim is impeccable. So censoring the note is certainly not an option… and I can't conceal it either. Or burn it in the ravenous flame. I've come to find that my morality is resolute even in situations, much like this, where I wish it wasn't. Regardless of who sent the letter and regardless of its contents, it's addressed to Katniss and, therefore, must make its way to her. I only wish that it hadn't fallen into my hands in the first place—now I can't assume the innocent bystander approach.

With my jacket and boots still on, I pace back and forth in the front hall. My fingers still relentlessly clutch the paper, too afraid to let it drop or set it aside until Katniss returns. I ache to discern its subject; does he want her to come visit him? Is he just writing to tell her that he misses her? That he's in love with her still?

Oh god. What if he tells her that he loves her? The thought of it is what unwinds me and I allow myself to crumple on the sofa, hands tensely clutching my curls as the letter flutters to my lap. My chest is throbbing, a million strings of unrestricted thoughts boiling in my overcrowded mind. I know what's coming as soon as my muscles seize and suspend, but by now it's crashing into me too abruptly and too fiercely for me to prevent it. And Katniss is not here to anchor me. She's not here to hold onto me with her tiny, beautiful, nimble fingers, and sing to me until I resurface.

I think of her hands, soft and tender as I drown, and suddenly, they morph into rigid, angry fingers, grabbing at me. Scratching. Digging into my skin. The world around me melts into a cataclysmic black, nauseating bursts of color and fire penetrating the obscurity. Katniss's fingers have left me, and now they've found another… Gale. She holds him like used to hold me, in the cave at the games. Stroking, caressing. Whispering tender assurances. She loves Gale. Those glimmering, grey eyes focus on him as if the world around her has disappeared and he is all that is left. He is her sunshine, her hope, her everything... and I have been forgotten. But then she looks to me, cackling. _It wasn't real, Peeta. None of it. I didn't love you. I never have._ And now she's kissing him, those tiny fingers braiding into his hair, pulling him down to her hungrily. Oh, god. I try and stop them, lunging at them, but she pushes me away. I crumple to the ground, begging for her to come back to me, but she's gone. She loves Gale. _I've loved him all along, you fool._ Sirens rake through my mind, explosions engulfing my ears. Everything around me is rocking, trembling, and I feel sick. _But I love you, Katniss._ She cackles, silver irises now a flaming red. _Stupid boy._ Gale is laughing, too, and he is touching her in a way that I've always inwardly wished I could but knew she wasn't ready for. Only she responds pleasurably to his hold. When he kisses her, he is passionate, fierce, fiery, matching her nature in a way I never could. They are immersed in flames now, blinding light erupting from every angle. I cover my ears and hold onto whatever I can as the fire reaches me, consuming me. I'm screaming in anguish, flashes of excruciating heat licking up and down my skin. Somewhere off in the distance, a new sound resonates, but it's too far off for me to latch onto. All I hear is Gale's cackling, and Katniss's gratified sighs. But that sound, that distant hum, grows just clear enough for me to identify it. It's singing. Vibrant, patent, pure. _Deep in the meadow, under the willow._ I feel something on my face, and my hands fly defensively up to push it away, but it continues with the song. _Here it's safe, here it's warm. Here the daisies guard you from harm._

It's growing clearer now. Gale's laughs and Katniss's moans have dulled, now overcome with the tune. _Forget your woes and let your troubles lay, and when again it's morning, they'll wash away._ The pain from the fire has dimmed compared to the satiny feel of fingers on my skin. I don't push them away now.

My mind bolts to all it can, wrapping around the melody as it pierces through the sting, the blackness, the dizzying flashes of color. The song rings clearly now. _Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true._ I feel myself emerging from the black, breaking through the surface of the nightmare. Cool air washes over my skin, shivers slithering down my spine as my eyes flutter open to a pair of affectionate silver ones.

"_Here is the place where I love you._"

Heat floods my cheeks as I find myself in the arms of the girl I love with every inch of my body. She has crawled onto my lap, legs on either side of my waist, one arm containing my shoulders and the other lifted so that her fingers can trace over my temple, my hair, my jaw, my lips. Fingers were the last thing of her that I could remember, and they are what brings me back, along with her song.

"It's not real," she coos, her lips finding my cheek. Where they graze my skin, a burning sensation arises—but this is not unpleasant or unwelcome. Her musky, fresh scent engulfs me; she typically returns like this after spending long hours in the forest. I've grown to love this about her, just as I've grown to love most everything else.

But now, behind my eyes, images of Gale holding her burn vividly. My body grows rigid as I try to push them out, but they still remain regardless, and my throat constricts. I let my face fall to her shoulder as I tremble, unable to hold myself together. I feel raw, humiliated, mortified with my own nightmare.

By now, I'm able to decipher between what is real and what's not when my hallucinations have subsided. But these days, after they have passed, instead of drowning in waves of confusion, I find myself overwhelmed with guilt and shame. How could I have imagined that? I pinned this fabricated reality on the girl I love more than life itself, thrusting a form of blame on her that she certainly never deserved… she could never warrant _anything_ like that.

She sprinkles assurances over me with delicate kisses. I can't pinpoint what I ever did to deserve her, to have her take care of me when I should be nursing her. Her palms cup my jaw, and she tilts my damp face up to her. I can hardly see her through my blurred vision but even now she looks just as beautiful as ever, with her hair falling out of its braid, decorated with twigs and leaves, cheeks rosy from the cold. She looks like a little woodland fairy but ardent and fearless all the same. I could watch her forever, exploring every inch of the face I've memorized so closely—it's what I do already. I'll never admit it, but some nights, when she's submerged in peaceful slumber, I study her until I, too, drift off.

"I'm so sorry, Katniss. I can't stop them from happening… I can't control them…"

In the back of my mind, I see fire raging, Katniss and Gale kissing. I deteriorate all over again.

She hushes me gently, bowing my head into her collar. Even through her thick jacket, her heart beats clearly, calming me ever so slightly. She doesn't question the details of my hallucinations, as she never does in fear of sending me back under. But my episodes have been diluting over these past months, and when they do hit, the cause is always evident. So when she very quietly stirs, "Why did this one happen?" I pin it on her naturally curious nature.

When I don't answer her immediately, her voice grows smaller, and she whimpers, "Was I gone too long?"

"No," I pitch back almost immediately. I cannot let her believe that this episode was her fault, as they never are. She is my remedy, never my trigger.

When I guiltily incline my face to meet her expression, she is gazing down at me with a sad smile over her flushed lips. Even if I wanted to, I know that I could never keep anything from her. Not even this letter. And so, in shame, I slowly reach down by my thigh where the slightly-crinkled envelope has fallen. My fingers catch on its side, lifting it up to her. My eyes avert, unable to watch her as she reacts to the letter, or to my harboring of it.

A long, destitute silence ensues as she holds the letter with one hand, the other brushing through my hair. Although the immediate response of recognizing the name on the letter leads her hand to pause momentarily, she quickly gathers her composure to continue.

"Oh."

That's all she manages to say in this pitiful quiet.

When I finally muster the courage to slant my head up, her eyes are still pinned on the envelope, her eyes scanning it over and over as if she doesn't believe it's real. My raw, aching voice cracks out a weak, "I'm sorry." As I say it, uncut understanding bridges her expression, and her pools of grey lift to lock with mine.

"This is why you relapsed?"

I nod shamefully.

Her brow furrows slightly. "Because of Gale?"

"Because I… I don't know, Katniss." _But I do. _It was the thought of him loving her still and his contact bringing her back to him, reeling her away from me. Because he is much more like her than I am; he is strong-willed, he is passionate, he is fire in every sense of the word. Like my Katniss. She is fire, and I am the water that extinguishes her. She deserves someone better.

She draws me from my own self-deprecating pity. "Peeta..."

My eyelids clench tightly in defense, breath filling my tired lungs. "I'm so sorry," I whimper. "I didn't know what the letter would say. A bunch of different scenarios popped up in my head, and I couldn't control them. I didn't mean to think what I did, and I'm so sorry… I just started picturing what would happen if Gale were to tell you that he still loved you, and if he wanted to see you, and I—"

Before I can dig myself any deeper into a hole, my incoherent, rambling apology is severed by a kiss much more fervent than the earlier ones. She lets the letter flutter to the sofa at her side as she frees both hands, wrapping them around my burly shoulders. Tiny palms press into my back, the back of my neck, my hair… I lose myself in her atmosphere, much like I always do when I find us partaking in this intricate dance, involuntarily sighing her name into her lungs. My tongue traces her bottom lip, savoring her taste; she wraps her silhouette around me and I hold her close. When the tips of my fingers skim over her spine, she inhales, her breath hitching. I dissolve at the vitalizing sound of her whimpering my name, pushing me over the edge. I feel nothing but her. I love nothing but her, want nothing more, need nothing more. The image of flames behind my lids is extinguished. An upsurge of protectiveness courses through me, and all I can think is that she is mine.

When we part, her hand is cupping the nape of my neck as our foreheads press together. Our breaths steady in chorus.

"Don't think those things, Peeta." Before I can protest, she continues. "I know you can't control your hallucinations, but you have to trust me. Regardless of what this letter says, the only person I want is you." Her palms press against my cheeks, squeezing them in like one would with a small child, pursing my lips. "Gale could promise me the entire world with no effect. You heal me, Peeta. You offset my fire. Gale would only make it worse."

Even though the words themselves soothe the searing pain of my previous assumption, a new blaze burns in my mind. _Fire_. The image ignites again, and my body tenses, my eyes clenching shut. She instantaneously picks up on the trigger and quickly goes on before the situation can worsen. "Just… just trust me, okay? Trust me that no matter what is in this envelope, you have my heart. Do you think you can do that?"

It's not _her_ who I have an issue with trusting. After these past few months, she has put every ounce of faith in me and sacrificed her invincibility by doing so; it's only fair that I reciprocate it. I've always trusted her with ease.

This ordeal should elicit nothing different.

"I can," I murmur back softly, my eyes opening again. Even though there is much inherent truth in my words, I know deep down that when it comes to Gale, I'll never be able to let my guard down. Or when it comes to anyone who could potentially hurt her, I suppose.

I just don't want to lose her. I _can't_ lose her.

Her body twists as she leans over to grab the letter, and now she's holding it between us with a relatively indecipherable expression. For someone who has always proven to be fairly easy to read, this moment reigns as an evident anomaly.

"Now, do you want to do the honors, or should I?"

Her thumb toys at the flap on the envelope, her brow lifting. A nervous heat pangs through my chest, and despite my attempt to conceal it, it clearly contorts my expression. She takes that as a signal for her to pull back the seal.

And so she does. With a sickening rip, she tears the paper open, leaving my palms clammy and trembling. I watch her expression carefully as she pulls out a single piece of parchment, unfolding it delicately.

She gulps and begins to read aloud, her voice cracking before she even makes it to the second word.

"Dear Katniss…"

* * *

_Well, there you go! Sorry it's short and kind of leaves on a cliffhanger, but as I wrote Gale's letter and the subsequent events, the mood contrasted so heavily with what I wrote earlier in the chapter that I decided they deserved a chapter of their own. I mean, the last thing I want to do is give you whiplash._

_So, what do you think about the whole scene with Peeta's hallucination? I've always written Peeta's episodes from Katniss's point of view, and I noticed that very few fics ever address Peeta's hallucinations from his perspective (and the ones that I read were not very descriptive). So with this one, I kind of just ran with it and hoped for the best! It was really exciting for me to write something so... demonic, I guess, when the rest of my story up until this point has been alternating between bleakness and slow-burning passion. So, here you go, something a little different. What are your opinions? :)_

_(Oh, and I made a playlist for this fanfiction! Go check out my profile, there's a link for it there. It's essentially a myriad of songs that describe how Peeta feels about Katniss more or less. I'll keep adding as I go!)_


	15. The Letter

_Happy new year to you all!_

_Thanks to all who reviewed and/or added this story to their alerts for this past chapter! Your kind feedback certainly gives me motivation to keep writing no matter what._

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing! Property of Suzanne Collins.**_

* * *

_Dear Katniss,_ it reads in black ink, scribbled almost illegibly in Gale's characteristically sloppy script.

_I've been hearing great things about what's happening in District 12 since the revolution. I understand that the population is much smaller than it used to be, but it is growing steadily. I'm in the Capitol now, assisting the new government. You may have seen a few propos I've done if you've been watching the TV, but it wouldn't surprise me if you haven't. You were never too big a fan of technology._

_President Paylor and Plutarch Heavensbee have been communicating with me recently and we have discussed the possibility of either bringing you to the Capitol or coming out to Twelve to film a propaganda clip with you in it. I understand if you are still too traumatized to assent to this proposition, but it would be very helpful if you could. Although the people of Panem are fairly compliant, it is believed that there is a little dissatisfaction and confusion in some of the districts. We hope that, with reassurance from the Mockingjay, we could encourage the people to support this new government. We need all the support we can get._

_If we have your approval, we will also send letters to Johanna Mason, Annie Odair, and Peeta Mellark. It would be ideal if we could do a series of propos, but only if we have your consent. You are the most important link._

_Please write back as soon as you possibly can. The quicker we get the ball rolling, the more effective it will be. If you don't want to film any propos, I will understand. __We__ will understand. We would just like to hear back from you so we know your stance._

_I hope that you are doing well. Rory mentioned how he's been seeing you more often recently, but he didn't disclose the circumstances around that. He's pretty vague as is, so it isn't much of a surprise. But anyway, I'd like to hear that you've recovered since the war. Take care, and I hope to hear back from you soon. _

_Sincerely, _

_ Gale._

* * *

I read his memorandum the whole way through with no pauses to collect scattered emotions, to include additional commentary, to emphasize the awkwardness of the letter or even take a deep breath. Although it is one hell of an uphill battle, I steady my tone so that I sound cool, cold, authoritative; I don't realize until it's over that I've been reading the letter in a tone much like Gale's.

Despite my fairly even articulation, I recognize that my gaze has much to hide. But it does not do so with much success. I have no doubt that my eyes illustrate how incredibly uncomfortable I am with Gale's clumsy alternating between formality and sincerity. His attempt to remain professional is just as obvious as his inability to do so, especially towards the end. This letter is clearly intended to be from the Capitol, only written by Gale to hopefully coerce me into compliancy.

And I hate them for it.

I know how the Capitol works, even if it is run by an entirely new government. I know Plutarch. I know Paylor. I know that they are fully aware that a cold, impersonal letter from one of them will not even leave a scratch in my solid armor. And I know that _they_ know that Gale is their only hope of getting through.

But what I _don't_ know—_who_ I don't know—is Gale. Not anymore. Even in his stubborn fits of rage where he would freeze me out, Gale never wasted the effort to be as formal as this. Even though the letter was clearly written by him, demonstrated by his moderately rudimentary rhetoric, the Gale that wrote this letter is hardly the Gale that grew up beside me.

He used to hate the Capitol. And now he is a part of it.

I do not know him any longer.

Peeta breaks my spiraling train of thought by shattering the silence, resting a warm palm over my waist. "What are you thinking?"

I remain still for a few moments, formulating a substantially decent answer. What _am_ I thinking? I have an entire stormy ocean of thoughts thundering around in my head. How could Gale _do_ this to me? We haven't spoken in almost a year, and when he decides to break his silence, he does so as a messenger? He used to be my best friend, he used to mean the _world_ to me, and because of him my sister is _dead_.

He owes me more than this.

My jaw hardens, my brow furrowing as I press every ounce of my might into swallowing down the acid that bubbles in my throat. I feel my fingers taking up the parchment, crumpling it into a ball and violently launching it into the unlit fireplace. Through my peripheral vision, I see that Peeta is watching me in patient horror as my fingers clench and release, clench and release.

And how could Plutarch, and Paylor, prompt this unmerited betrayal? Didn't they watch as I shattered into a million pieces in front of the country because of _their_ regime, under _their_ revolution? Killing Coin, attempting to kill _myself_…. Even after almost a year, how _dare_ they attempt to invade my recovery process to push their own agendas? And do so by utilizing the only weapon they know can break me even further?

What hurts most of all, however, is not Gale's stoicism, nor Plutarch or Paylor's bold intent, nor their lack of respect for my privacy. It is the entire notion that their inconsiderate scheme has succeeded.

They've won.

My face dips into my hands, a few wisps of stray hair waving in front of my face. I feel my shoulders trembling slightly as I crumble before Peeta. I can't do this. They've pushed me over the edge. And in this moment, I understand that I am not the Girl on Fire, the girl who would lash out in anger or become aggressive.

In her place, a broken child rises from the ashes. Peeta cradles me in his arms as I had for him earlier; and he says nothing to me, for I assume he fears that any attempt at verbal comfort will only worsen the situation. Instead, his hands work over my back as he tucks my head into his chest.

After several minutes of fragmented sobs and unsteady quavering, a muffled voice finally escapes from my lips, catching in the fabric of his shirt.

"I'm not the Mockingjay anymore, Peeta," I whimper. But that is only half-true.

To me, I am no longer the symbol of the elapsed rebellion. To the rest of Panem, to Plutarch, to Paylor… to _Gale_… I am. And I always will be. I will forever be the face of the revolution that I hadn't even intended for to begin with.

His voice is musical and subduing all the same as he agrees with me. "I know."

Well, that makes two of us.

"I don't want it," I murmur, my voice catching painfully in my throat. "I don't want to do propaganda anymore." I don't know if I _can_ do propaganda anymore. My mind flickers to a hazy image of me standing before a camera and breaking down into an inconsolable mess as soon as the red recording light begins to flash.

I feel Peeta's hands dexterously pull the band from my hair, brushing through the braid to disentangle it. They pick out leaves, twigs, running through my thick curls.

"You don't have to, love." The term of endearment sounds like honey from his lips—I can tell he adores saying it by the way his tongue rolls around it. "They don't own you. You are obligated to do _nothing_."

As he says it, my mind cannot help but spin in nauseating circles as it aggressively disagrees. Another clear sob rings from my throat as I feel that, even though Peeta believes I'm not obligated to do any propos… I really have no choice. Even the stubborn, self-governing Katniss that I have slowly grown back into feels indebted for reasons that Peeta will probably never understand.

Nevertheless, the sympathetic, always loving boy holds me on the sofa as I cry into his collar, the endless trickles of thoughts buzzing through my overcrowded mind. For one, how could the man that used to be my best friend become the type of person that both of us hated? Gale, to me, was the farthest thing in the world from the Capitol. He was the only one who offered me true release from its grasp, and I identified with that; now, he's become what I always feared. Even though _this_ Capitol is different from the one we grew up despising, Gale is no longer that fiery, fervent boy I befriended in the first place. The man who wrote this letter did so in the name of the government, not in the name of the man he used to be.

And that is absolutely devastating.

And not only that, but how could he not even bring up my sister? My lost sister, gone because of none other than his handiwork? His letter made absolutely no attempt at consolation, no apology. _But anyway, I'd like to hear that you've recovered since the war._ As if it was the _war_ in and of itself that launched me into the deep end. Even though I've done my best to push Gale from my mind since the day he walked away from me, as memories of him always bring along memories of Prim, he's been a loose end that I've been waiting to tie. Waiting for _him_ to tie himself. Whether or not this broken abyss between us can be mended, I've always wanted him to try.

And he can't even do me that one favor.

Peeta holds me with an impossibly effusive grasp as I cry with abandon for what could be years. Ordeals like these remind me that, despite substantial progress made, at the end of the day, it seems regression to any degree is inevitable. The world never fails to disillusion me, to disillusion _us_. But in this chaos of a life we live in, I have one anchor that proves to be unwavering in its confidence. I have Peeta. Because of this simple yet concrete fact, I know that recovery _is_ possible and that relapse can only be so damaging. And so, as I repeat that assurance in my mind over and over again, my breaths begin to grow even, my heartbeat slowing to a healthy pace. If it weren't for his hold, I would be scattered all over the floor in irreparable disarray. And as I remember earlier this evening, when the tables had turned and it was _me_ keeping _him_ from falling apart, I can't imagine what we'd do without each other.

When I've finally composed myself enough to detach my dampened face from his chest, Peeta helps me off the couch and carries me into the dining room. Our dinner is fairly bland tonight, as Peeta hadn't prepared anything due to his episode before I returned, but neither of us seem too concerned. We eat predominantly in silence with chairs scooted much closer together than usual, fingers interlocked underneath the table. I don't want to think about the letter and about the looming burden. But when it does manage to leak into my thoughts, I have his hand on mine to reassure me that I am not alone.

Tonight, we do not light a fire despite the unforgiving cold just outside the window. Both of us desperately need a shower, and so we retreat upstairs. Peeta offers to let me go first, but I startle both him and myself by inviting him in with me. It's essentially déjà vu of the ordeal several weeks before when I asked him to accompany me in the bathroom; I don't quite understand what I'm saying until the plea is out in the bitter air, ready to be attacked. A wild blush rages through Peeta's cheeks, much like mine. And _he_ used to tease _me_ for being "pure."

I suppose I still am; I laugh tiredly and suggest we keep our underwear on. I'm presuming that a nice warm bath will at least partially clear my thoughts—and Peeta's company will do nothing but add relief—just enough so that my nightmares won't slay me tonight. I am not inviting him into this bath out of some carnal, self-fulfilling craving. I invite him in with me because I ache to be close to him, to feel secure underneath his cloak of protection. To have this affair divert my attention for the time being.

And so it does. I run the water and we peel sticky clothes from our skin, leaving our underclothing to maintain whatever limits we've set thus far. Both of us are flushing madly, cheeks bright red and eyes darting in every direction. Once my shirt is delicately heaped on the floor beside my pants, I can tell by his avoidant gaze that it's taking every ounce of his restraint not to study me. Although my reaction is less clear than his, I, too, have trouble not exploring him with his soft skin, muscular contours, rosy cheeks. I ache to memorize the divisions of him that I have not been afforded the opportunity to learn yet, but I hide it much better than he.

Peeta is the first to step into the bath, carefully lowering himself into the pool of collected water. He does so with bizarre grace; I would expect his leg to give him more trouble, but maybe he's so accustomed to it by now that operating it is second nature. Nevertheless, even though I've been sleeping with him for month upon month, _I_ still have yet to adapt to it. He almost always wears long pants around me, and when he does not, we are often eclipsed by dark. I rarely see his prosthetic, as I am sure that when it is exposed, he feels just as vulnerable as I do when I let my feelings for him take on a life of their own.

I suppose we both have our fears of susceptibilities.

I fear unadulterated dependence and the weakness of loss; he fears having me view him as something less than "whole." Little does he understand that I've never thought of him that way, especially not because of his leg. He is one of the more complete people I know.

Once he is situated in the tub, I follow suit. I can feel Peeta's eyes inadvertently studying the dimples of my spine as I descend down with him, my back inches from his chest. He does not observe me in a way that would make me uncomfortable; rather, he watches me with nervous innocence, as if he doesn't quite understand how a half-naked girl ended up pressed up against a half-naked him. I lean into him softly, his skin burning and enchanting all the same. I feel him inhale against me.

A fraction of me tingles, craving him in every way possible; another feels absolutely mortified in innate self-consciousness. Peeta must occupy the exact same state as I do. We both laugh it off, our raw throats clearing with unexpected giggles. Maybe this _is_ developing to be what I intended, and what we needed: a distraction of some sort. Surprisingly, it's working with abnormal success. I almost forget about the letter and the impending decision.

As his arms struggle to wrap around me without contacting anywhere he assumes I don't want to be touched, we both chuckle nervously. The concept of bathing together in and of itself is fairly romantic, but the actual execution is far less idealistic. It's quite awkward in practice, actually. Sopping fabric clumsily moves and sticks in the strangest of places and ways; dripping skin collides with more dripping skin, slipping inelegantly. Hair gets everywhere. But our gracelessness is nothing but amusing. I giggle the entire time that Peeta scrubs my hair with citrus-scented shampoo, blowing bubbles as I dunk my soapy head under the surface of the water. The bath around me froths as I do so. When I emerge with streams of bathwater pouring from my matted mane, I turn around and we clumsily paw at each other's hands, water sprinkling everywhere; we're blushing the entire way through.

I can't imagine how I gathered the nerve to invite him to do this in the first place, but at its conclusion, I'm certainly thankful I did. Even though it's far less passionate in reality than in theory, we allow ourselves to escape the impending question for just a night to entertain each other. I all but forget Gale's proposition and Peeta's earlier episode, and by the way his mood has lightened so drastically, I assume that he has, too.

At one point, an enigmatic wave of very temporary bliss overcomes me, and my hand aggressively skims over the water to splash Peeta. After he recovers from the initial shock, he copies my action in return; thus, by the end of the bath, we've drenched the entire room. I'm pretty sure that more of the bathwater ends up on the floor than in the actual tub. But once we decide to dry off, we're laughing uncontrollably. In part, I can tell that Peeta's jubilance comes from mine; I know full well that he would do anything to see me happy. And if that entails provisional distraction, then so be it.

Once we're dried and in our pajamas for the night, we curl up underneath the plush comforter, my spine laying into his chest. His knees tuck into the backs of mine, arms winding around my little body. He kisses my hair and I feel myself expel a sigh, grasping at the sheets and releasing momentarily after.

We begin to drift off to the tune of each other's breaths and heartbeats; just like every night, I find myself subdued by his presence. Through whispers of kisses against my hair, my temple, my ear, he assures me that he will cuddle the nightmares right out of me if need be. And if one should arise, he won't leave me. He will remain. Always.

Of that, I am positive.

So of what do I have to be afraid? He will protect me from harm and soothe me even in my most violent relapses. His unwavering patience has proven to be an unexpected shield; when my own armor could not guard me from the world, his custody did.

And so, in the waning hours of the evening, when the looming dilemma fills my previously peaceful thoughts, I am not afraid. I know the decision I must make; I've known it all along. But now, I do not dread what it may entail, for I have Peeta.

He won't let me fall.

"I'm going to do it," I purr softly into the darkness, a hint of caution lodged in my tone.

I feel Peeta unsuspectingly nuzzle into the back of my neck. "Do what?" he sighs.

"The propaganda clip."

Surprisingly, this time, Peeta manages to compose himself before his body can grow rigid and alarm me. But his initial hesitation tips me off; so when he kisses my neck to assume a false façade of poise, I imagine his innards are reeling. I know him well enough—just as he knows me equally as intricately—to be able to distinguish when he's distressed even when he doesn't overtly hint at it.

I swivel in his arms, turning to face him. The slight shine from the moon glimmers off his blue irises, illuminating them as a brilliant silver in the monochromatic night. His face is relatively unreadable in his attempt to appear composed, but I know he's upset. I want him to tell me himself, however.

This time, it is me who asks him, "What are you thinking?"

"That I'll be supportive of whatever choice you make." He attempts to smile warmly, and I judge that it's at least half-effective.

I lean in, planting a gentle kiss on his lips. "Well, I'll do it. I know I don't have to, but I feel like it's the right thing to do. It's my last act as the Mockingjay and the symbol that I don't want to be any longer. It'll be my goodbye, and then… I guess when it's over, I'll finally feel at peace. And then maybe they'll leave me alone for good. We can be done with the Capitol, with the propos, and you can be done with worrying about Gale." Although, I doubt Peeta will truly ever stop worrying about me and Gale regardless of how extensively he trusts me, or even grows to trust Gale. His natural protectiveness isn't going to subside that easily. "And once we're done with all that, we can be at ease for once. We can get on with the rest of our lives. And it'll just be you and me, Peeta. Does that make sense?"

Even if my arguments aren't flawlessly coherent, he must care about me enough to accept them for what they are.

This time, I can tell his smile isn't forced.

"Just you and me."

Of _course_ that would be the little section of my spiel on which he would focus. "Was that the only part you paid attention to?" I laugh.

In return, he kisses my nose. "Yes." After he manages to elicit a giggle from me, he continues, "But, in all seriousness, I understand what you're saying and where you're coming from. Just be careful, Katniss. I don't want these affairs to end up hurting you and undoing your progress. In any case, are you positive you can handle being in the Capitol again?"

My teeth drag over my bottom lip as I consider his implication. The idea of travelling to the Capitol had completely skipped my mind; but then again, is the Capitol even a necessary division of this ordeal? I know for a fact that I could not stomach a visit. The Capitol was where I lost everything; I cannot return to see it thriving again as if nothing had happened. As if thousands hadn't been slaughtered in the streets. As if Prim was still alive.

"I don't know. But… he did say that we could shoot them here, right? Maybe that would be safest. Then we don't have to relocate and attempt to get accustomed to a new room and schedule. I like _this_ home, and this bed, and the bakery and the woods." It would be just me and Peeta, like I promised. I'm sure my sanity would be far more intact if we remained in Twelve during the filming.

"Well, I like you." His lips mold around my nose.

"I'd hope so. We just took a bath together," I snort.

"With clothes on, however. That only half-counts."

"Does that mean you only half-like me?"

My pointed gaze is clearly teasing, the corners of my lips perking up playfully. To this, Peeta takes me in his arms, pulling me flush up against him, our hearts pounding in unison through the fabric over our chests.

"It means I _love_ you."

I feel an uncontainable warmth spreading through my chest as my eyes flutter closed. His kiss nestles into my forehead and I release an automatic sigh, thoroughly satisfied. Peeta knows better than to ask me to say it back—one day, I'll be able to. I hope he knows that I'm growing closer to that mark every night he smothers me with his own love.

"I'm pretty crazy about you, too," is what I murmur back, burrowing contently into his heated, inviting collar.

We fall asleep like this, intertwined intricately, synchronizing breaths and heartbeats. We do not mention the plans regarding the Capitol's propos again that night, and I hope that maybe, just maybe, I will fall asleep with no nightmares lurking around the corner. That I can finally achieve the peace I so desperately long for.

But that night, we awake in the darkness to the sounds of my own mangled screams as images of plunging bombs, flashing colors, blonde braids, begin to pulse in my mind. Peeta comforts me with promises that I am alright, that I have nothing to fear, that it is not real, until my sobs wither into whimpers and then into soft stirs. I fall asleep with him comforting me as he rests awake until he knows I am secure again.

It isn't until I wake to a pallid-looking Peeta with tired eyes and an expended smile that I realize he hasn't slept at all. That he stayed conscious for me to confirm that I was safe from nightmares.

And I managed to sleep without even attempting to assure him that _his_ nightmares about the propaganda, about the Capitol, about Gale, weren't real. Even though he hadn't asked for my consolation, I feel ashamed at my lack of attentiveness. As my thin fingers run through his matted golden curls while the brilliant light from morning drowns us, I realize that Peeta doesn't understand that I am there for him completely, too. He doesn't realize I'm willing to comfort him even _beyond_ his hallucinations. That I want to hold him together while he keeps me from falling apart, too.

I pray tat one day he recognizes this is a two-way street.

That he doesn't have to suffer in silence.

After I've dipped into full consciousness for the morning, Peeta calls Haymitch and Rory to notify them that he's taking a sick day. Despite Rory's alarmed pleas, Peeta promises that he trusts him enough to hold down the fort for just one day, as long as he keeps the liquor away from Haymitch.

And once the call has been made, he returns to bed with a cup of mint tea for me. I straighten myself to receive it as he climbs back underneath the sheets, snuggling up to my waist. I wrap an arm around his shoulders, holding him to my side as he shifts into a comfortable position against me. My fingers part through his blonde hair as I take a sip from my mug.

He doesn't fall asleep right away; I can't quite decipher why. It's almost as if he's still attempting to watch over me. Predominantly, we remain in silence; when we do speak, he asks me casual questions and I answer absent-mindedly. We don't mention the letter, or Gale, or the Capital, or the propos. Even though his eyes beg a thousand questions, I give no answers; I don't bring up this topic, as I'm afraid it'll keep him awake with worry. His allotted time of concern for me has ended and it is _my_ turn to reciprocate it.

As he drifts off, cuddled up beside me as we both remain under the blankets on this particularly cold morning, I begin to desire retribution for all of the comfort he's given me. We have partaken in this lopsided game for far too long. I'm tired of him suffering in silence because he's too afraid to burden me with his problems; the only time he lets his guard dissolve is after an episode, but that's when his emotions are already impossibly fragile and he feels most vulnerable.

So, while Peeta gently falls asleep in my arms in the bleak autumn morning, I concretely decide that I will be there for him just as attentively as he is there for me. Seeing as all we have is each other, we might as well indulge.

And that's why, when I idly shift my weight and Peeta resurfaces for just long enough to plead for me to stay with him, I decide that it is my rightful turn to whisper back the assurance that has secured me on even the most uncertain of nights.

"Always."

* * *

_Thanks for the read! If you have the time, pop in and leave a review to let me know what you're thinking! Oh, and be sure to check out the playlist I made for this story. There's a link on my profile. Sorry, there's only like ten songs as of yet, but I'll change that soon!_

_Have a wonderful rest of the week, and a happy, HAPPY new year, and I'll post the next chapter as soon as I can. There's lots of angst and plot movement and (as always) Everlark fluff to come. :)_


	16. Marks

_I received a few messages from followers who weren't notified last time I updated my chapter... this site has been pretty up and down lately, and I don't know why, but if you haven't read chapter 15 yet for whatever reason, definitely do that first! Otherwise, this chapter will make no sense. :)_

_Well, I'm quite excited to share this chapter, because I finally got to write in Johanna! She's such a fun character to work with._

_So, with all that in mind, enjoy!_

_**Disclaimer: All characters and fundamentals are property of Suzanne Collins. **_

* * *

Gale's second letter arrives only two days after I've mailed my reply. However, this time around, a second one accompanies it; one for Peeta as well. The note enclosed in the envelope to Peeta strikingly resembles the one I received last week in its dispassionate address. The second one, on the other hand, which is written to me, is far warmer.

Peeta and I had slaved away for hour after hour one night, writing and re-writing the response to Gale's initial request. It was fairly brief and ambiguous; I didn't mention Peeta in it primarily out of spite. I figure, the only retribution Gale truly needs for his inconsiderate pretense in the last letter is that he'll discover Peeta and I are together not through writing, but when we finally see him face-to-face. I can't recall the last time I was this intentionally vindictive, and as I relay this plan of mine to Peeta, his shock at my malice is nearly palpable. But for the time being, I do not care. I feel used. I feel as if I'm being pushed right back into the dirt as I try to stand on shaky legs. And, on top of that, I feel betrayed by someone I used to trust with everything.

So I believe my resentment is well-warranted.

In my letter, I hardly spoke of District 12 and my recovery. My response was short and conveyed my demands with no additional fluff: I will comply only if Paylor, Plutarch, Gale, and the camera crews come to me. And only if they respect my decisions, allow me liberties with the scripts, and not dress me in any ridiculous outfits.

I will be the Mockingjay under my terms, and my terms alone. That point is clear-cut in my reply.

Naturally, I expect Gale's response to be just as straightforward and icy as mine. That is the mood that we find in the letter addressed to Peeta. _Katniss has consented to take part in a set of propaganda clips designed for the people of Panem. If you are at all in a state where you believe you could provide desirable support to this segment, we would appreciate your assistance._ Peeta laughs, remarkably amused by the invitation.

"Wow. His respect for me is _abundant._"

"I wonder how much of that letter Plutarch wrote for him." Gale's vocabulary has never been _that_ advanced. The only feature of the letter that is screams _Gale_ is the handwriting. Well, and the antipathy, too, but that goes without saying. "He should've just signed the damn thing with his own name."

When I tear open the envelope addressed to me, I anticipate to read similar phrases with a correspondingly detached tone. Surprisingly, the response to my letter is far longer, more elaborate, and is scrawled in a voice that belongs to Gale. Initially, he thanks me in a myriad of ways for my compliancy, and then he proceeds to explain how eager he is to see me again.

As if nothing between us was ever broken in the first place.

Does he truly think I'm in any state to blindly reaccept his friendship? A portion of me aches for that, for the closeness and the trust we used to share. But I cannot reconnect with someone so distant and unlike the man he used to be. So, for now, I am resolute in my temporary detachment.

Peeta takes a few moments to compose a quick response expressing his accord, and I watch absent-mindedly as his fingers scribble out elegant strings of letters. The boy writes almost as beautifully as he paints.

While he seals the envelope and walks it to the mailbox, I curl up at the foot of the hearth, enshrouded in a thick comforter. Peeta returns, lighting the fire for us as he always does. When he revolves to face me, I extend my arm to open the blanket and he dives in beside me. We're tangled together in a mess of fabric, and we giggle as we let the heat warm our frigid toes and aching souls. Even in the shadow of the upcoming ordeal, I feel much more in control than I did a week ago. We are doing this on _my_ terms, and for once, I predict I will be getting the closure I've so immensely desired.

And then it will finally be over. The interference of the Capitol will have vanished alongside the stress of never tying up loose ends with Gale.

It will be just me and Peeta, finally able to start the lives we've tried so hard to recreate for ourselves.

But, in the meantime, we wait. I understand that this will be no quick process; if they aspire to do this right, the whole set of circumstances won't have elapsed in a week or even two. They'll have to align their schedules with mine, Peeta's, and hopefully Johanna's and Annie's as well. And we all know how much of a pain in the ass Johanna can be. If they expect _me_ to be a burden, then I'm extremely curious what they predict _that_ girl will become.

So for the time being, Peeta and I saturate our days with the same activities we've been learning to perfect. He runs the bakery throughout the daylight hours, building relations with both Haymitch and Rory. I hunt in the mornings, surprise him with visits at the bakery around noon most days, and then continue my escapades in the woods until the afternoon light begins to wane. We sustain this pattern with ease as we wait, as we anticipate the upcoming turn of events.

The only alteration made is my increase in efforts at attentiveness toward Peeta's behavior. Since the night of his last episode, where he stayed awake all night to guard me and ensure my solace, I've made it my mission to comfort him just as often as he does for me. Of its own accord, the task seems fairly basic: I need to survey Peeta's emotions as intently as he regards mine.

However, after about a week has passed, I recognize that this feat is far more difficult in practice than in theory. I am far more self-concerned than I would've guessed. While I spend so much time lost in the mazes of my mind, attempting to decipher my _own_ feelings, Peeta has trained himself to unremittingly observe the emotions of those around him. Or maybe he just does so naturally. Either way, while I wallow in my own introspect, Peeta instinctively analyzes my behaviors and emotions.

So this mission becomes an active struggle. I coach myself to examine his actions and reactions, which becomes a difficult uphill battle, but I persevere. I begin to notice subtle manners of his that I would've never picked up on before. For one, sometimes he'll don an absolutely blank expression, and then he'll look to me and a gentle smile will stretch at his lips. Other times, while he's preparing dinner, his movements will slow for a moment as his eyes zoom out of focus—not as if he's about to launch into an episode, of course. He just falls so lost in thought that his actions become automatic.

In moments like these, I'll hop from my habitual seat on the counter to press my chest to his muscular back, arms winding around his torso. It's only when I do this that I realize his muscles have grown rigid, for they relax at my touch. He'll thank me with a kiss and continue with his work, but I can see in the glimmering blues of his eyes that my concentration means the world to him. He probably never thought he'd have the obstinately self-absorbed Katniss Everdeen, of all people, analyzing him with an intent that he has mastered. But I know he needs it just as much as I do.

I've grown to realize that, upon his return, Peeta was in no better state than I. At least I still knew who I was; Peeta had come back with spotty memories and a hazy grasp on his own being. But because Peeta only fell apart during and after his episodes, while I was tearing at the seams habitually, I'd thought that he was far more resolved than I was. It's only after careful observation that I've come to understand I was wrong in my assumption. Peeta has been struggling just as much as I have; he is just far more adapted to concealing it. He's too concerned with pleasing me that he hardly allows his own discomfort to show, as it seems that his pain is eclipsed by his inherent need to comfort me.

And I hate that.

I hate that I've been so inattentive, so oblivious to his ongoing pain. The only cases in which I've taken the time to reassure him have been after a hallucination, but the poor boy certainly needs more consolation than in only those instances. Unfortunately, he plays solitarily on offense while I've mastered defense; he reaches out to protect me, while I shrivel up to safeguard myself. I've gone too long before realizing that maybe he needs someone to reach out to him more often than he asks. After all, Peeta only asks for consolation if he's absolutely devastated.

Thus, in this indefinite purgatory we occupy as we wait for Gale, and for Plutarch, for Paylor, for Johanna and Annie, I spend my time rebuilding Peeta. Of course, I don't tell him what I'm doing—I assume that'll be more effective. Instead, I observe him carefully, I hold him whenever his brow is furrowed, I kiss him when he least expects it, and I sing to him as he struggles to fall asleep.

And the boy is sleeping better, now. Every night I lull him to sleep with a gentle melody, he does not have nightmares.

Neither do I.

* * *

As autumn is withering away, we receive letters from both Gale and Johanna. Gale notifies us that the he and Plutarch will be visiting in a week; Paylor will be remaining in the Capitol to continue to run affairs. In her note, Johanna tells us that she'll be coming to Twelve a day before the cameras are set to arrive.

It is now that Peeta and I begin to panic. We are not concerned with how the camera crew will be accommodated, and both of us assume that Plutarch will eagerly occupy one of the vacant homes in the Victor's Village for his stay, but what about Johanna and Gale? Despite my provisional resentment toward my former companion, I feel as if it would be cruel to not arrange his housing. And Johanna has certainly merited a place in our home. Well, in Peeta's home, technically.

Peeta and I resolve to offer Gale my house. Even though I haven't occupied it in months, and I'm sure the place could use a little TLC, it's at least more hospitable than a completely empty home. Not to mention, he's been inside the quarters before, so he'll at least be partially familiar with the place.

In regards to Johanna, we don't even resort to discussion to swiftly agree that she'll be staying in one of the guest rooms down the hall from us. We have heard nothing from Annie, and we suspect that she would much rather stay in Four and take care of her son than film a few inconsequential propos, so we only prepare a room for our friend from District 7. We spend one evening cleaning the house; making beds, dusting surfaces, filling empty guest rooms up with unsystematic décor to at least make the place seem a little more friendly and accommodating. This evening makes our eighteen years feel dwarfed; suddenly, our inexperience is clear. We feel juvenile all over again, like two kids organizing and systemizing plans. Everything that we'd done up until now seemed second nature to us—the hunting for me, the baking for Peeta. I suppose he's a little more adept to this whole "responsibility" kick with his shop, but I feel like a fish out of water as we prepare for Johanna.

The pages on the calendar fly off with miraculous speed, and before the two of us can even blink, it's the night before she is set to arrive, and two nights before Twelve will be brimming with Capitol workers. I hope the population of the District doesn't fall too angry with us for bringing the government here. As of now, we get along with them fairly well; while many citizens were initially a little tentative around me, they all warmed up to Peeta instantly upon return and I suppose some of that fondness has rubbed off on his significant other. I don't want that to change.

Johanna's train is scheduled to come in at the station around nine in the morning, so on the eve of her visit, Peeta and I decide to go to bed a little earlier than usual so our day can start early. With fresh skin from recent showers, we curl underneath the covers. My damp tresses spread all over the pillow and Peeta reels me into his chest, pressing his lips to my hair.

"You smell like oranges, love," he sighs, his voice muffled against my skull. "I can't decide if I like that better than when you come home from a long day out hunting and you smell a little like pine and musk."

"You always smell like cinnamon," I comment back. It's as if the spice has permanently branded itself into his skin.

His lips work their way from my hair to my forehead and then my temple. My palms lay limply over his chest as he ropes his muscular arms around me, his lips eliciting a tingling sensation wherever they plant themselves.

When he speaks, his breath washes over my face. "Are you nervous for tomorrow?"

"Not tomorrow, really. I'm much more anxious for the day after that. And the following weeks…" I let my phrase trail as he squeezes me tighter. "Are you?"

He shrugs. "I mean, Johanna can get pretty wild…"

"But she adores you," I toss back, my fingers clutching at the fabric over his chest. Underneath my calloused palms, his heartbeat pulsates firmly, promising me that this boy is not only alive and real, but that he does love me as well. And that is one of the most assuring notions I've found.

As his fingers dive under the bottom hem of my shirt, tracing the skin just over the waistband of the pair of his boxer shorts I wear to bed, he chuckles. "Which will make her all the more aggressive."

But Peeta can't deny it. Even though I write to Johanna frequently, she telephones Peeta much more often. After all, they endured Capitol torture together; they understand each other in a way I never could dream of grasping. A sliver of me is jealous of them and the friendship they foster, but then I remember that I'm _with_ Peeta, and Johanna will be here soon enough. I can't wait to see her.

"The harassment will be relentless. She'll probably never let up on the fact that we're together now." My eyes find his even in the dark.

"Katniss, let's be realistic here. She never lets up on _anything_." The thin splinters of moonlight that slice through the open window glimmer off his teeth as he grins down at me. And then, he leans a little closer, "And since she's going to torment us anyway, we might as well give her cause."

Before I can ask exactly what he means by that, his lips crash into mine with imperious force; yet, even in this fervent action of his, he remains incessantly gentle per usual. He would never hurt me. I instinctively release a squeal against his kiss, which elicits a musical chuckle from him. Suddenly, his breath is overwhelming me, sweeping me away, far away from here. My environment dissolves, and now it is just me and Peeta.

My anxiety for the upcoming week fades into black as I delve deeper with Peeta, letting him take me by storm. His arms hold me to him as he shifts himself over me, my heart palpitating as he does so. My fingers braid into his hair, securing his lips to mine. _Don't let me go, Peeta._

The air enveloping us is humid, thick with sweat and desire as my fingers pull at his shirt, bunching it up until his flat stomach is exposed. He parts for just a moment to pull it over his head, and within a moment, he is back down on me, taking my breath away all over again.

We've never done this before; certainly, innumerable nights in bed with Peeta have been consumed by kisses, by tight embraces. But within most of those, Peeta had been overtly deliberate and tender with every touch. Although his touches are careful now, they are more frenzied than before, unfeigned in their ardency. And mine only reflect his enthusiasm, if not surmount it.

Not to mention, the boy is shirtless.

My palms franticly work over his exposed skin, captivated by its inherent silkiness and the way it feels like velvet against mine. I pull him down to me, closer than before. I want to feel him. I _need_ to feel Peeta.

His lips migrate from mine down to my jaw, then to my neck, my collar. He kisses the tender skin there, suckling gently, and then more passionately. My palms dig into his shoulders and I innately gasp his name into the steaming air around us; hearing his own name generates a shudder throughout his body as his lips work over my throat, kissing my scars, mending my wounds. I have never felt so alive.

When his mouth finds mine again, this time, his wet kisses begin to slow; his palm cups my jaw as he holds himself over me, careful not to flatten me under his weight. I taste his tongue as it delicately traces over my bottom lip, and I inhale him. He whispers my name as he pulls back, taking one finger, then two, to brush my sweaty hair away from my forehead.

"You are so beautiful, Katniss," he croons.

The pads of my fingers trace up and down his spine, drawing goose bumps where they trail; he shivers as I do so, his lips connecting with mine briefly.

And then, as he parts, I watch his brow furrow.

"You're really here with me. In my bed. Kissing me. Real or not real?"

After all this time, I thought he would've been confident enough in our union to trust it; but maybe it seems too paradisiac to believe.

I find myself giggling as my lips press into the tip of his nose.

"Real, Peeta. Very, very real."

* * *

As the icy air of the morning begins to grow crisp with daylight, Peeta and I stand huddled at the dock that lines the tracks. With arms around each other's waists, we wait, trembling with chattering teeth at the cold. Even the thick wool scarf around my neck doesn't shield me from the bitter breeze around us as it penetrates me to my core.

Growing up in Twelve, watching tribute after tribute ship off on this same train, began to paint it with a negative connotation. As it seemed, everything that boarded the train wouldn't return. It became a subjective emblem of loss. It only took children like me away from their families; it never brought anyone home.

But now, as we stand in anticipation, I begin to fathom how this time around, it is not taking. It's giving. It's bringing back an old friend; someone who understands us, someone who will make us feel a little less lonely. The entire condition seems ironic and bizarre, and as I glance to Peeta, the despondency smoldering in his flat blue irises, I know he feels the same.

We think so much alike these days, anyway.

The wait seems to continue for years, but suddenly, the train appears. Its silver body lines against the dock, slowing down as it arrives. Peeta's clutch on me tautens.

As predicted, the spiky-haired brunette is the first passenger to emerge from the double sliding doors. Her eyes greet ours almost immediately, as if she knew exactly we would be positioned. Before I know what's happening, I'm darting toward her, pulling Peeta with me. She's pushing her way towards me with eager haste—at least, as fast as her large luggage bag will allow. And suddenly, her firm arms are wrapped around the both of us, pulling us into an asphyxiating trio.

"I missed you, Brainless." I feel every ounce of pent-up reserve diminish at the familiar nickname, no matter how derogatory. "You too, Peg-leg."

"It's great to see you, too, Johanna," Peeta chuckles, and I feel his muscles flex as he holds the two of us closer. If I wasn't so confident in his love for me, his closeness to her would unnerve me. But in these circumstances, with the three of us all intertwined in the bitter cold at the station, nothing ever felt so natural, so sincere, so pure.

* * *

I spend little time in the woods this morning; I hunt only until I've caught game that I deem worthy for tonight. Thankfully, a wild turkey waddles unsuspectingly in front of me within the hour.

My stride back through town on the way home is buoyant and eager as I sling my game back over my shoulder. Even though Johanna unnerves me more often than she gratifies, her company, along with Peeta's, reminds me that not all is lost, and that not all has changed. Even in these shattered remains of a broken country that we live in, where the skies seem unwelcoming even on their bluest of days, some guarantees remain. Johanna, herself, is a promise of consistency.

I'm back before the noon sun has surmounted in the elastic sky; when I come barging through the door, I find a dough-encrusted Peeta shielding himself with a cutting board as Johanna, cackling uncontrollably, flicks flour his way. I step into the kitchen while Peeta ducks behind the counter and peers at me from underneath the ledge. "Thank god, you're back. Do you mind shooting her through the eye for me?" This just warrants another toss of powder from the animated woman shuffling through our shambolic pantry.

I disregard his statement. "Johanna, why are you brutally attacking Peeta?"

"He told me he didn't trust me with knives, so I thought I would prove that there's a _lot_ more he has to be concerned over."

"Fair enough," I orate as I lob my old, frayed bag on the countertop. "I brought some turkey for tonight."

Johanna plunks the sack of flour on the counter beside my bag, and Peeta springs up, relieved. He wipes a hand over his dusty forehead. "You're my hero, Katniss. I was worried for a moment that we'd end up having to cook _me_ for dinner."

When I glance over to Johanna, her wide-set cocoa eyes are glimmering. "I mean, he's already half-prepped for the frying pan…"

Peeta's chalky hand wraps around my waist, and as his lips find my tangled braid, I contest, "I think that's where I'll have to put my foot down."

"But just _imagine_ how irate Plutarch would be if he found out that two of his propaganda stars became cannibals and ate the third! That would be the news story of the century. We would be _legends_, not to mention, we'd throw off Plutarch and Paylor's little manipulative scheme."

Even beyond her artificial insanity, I know the idea of demolishing Plutarch and Paylor's plan with the propos would be absolutely enthralling to Johanna. Of course, she would not go as far as digesting my lover, but the resentment is something that the three of us share as we stand in the flour-encrusted kitchen.

"As much as I would enjoy that man's frustration, I am not willing to take one for the team and let myself get roasted. But I'm flattered that you'd consider me." Peeta does a little mocking bow, kicking up a cloud of flour in the air as he does so. The two of us girls laugh at this, letting him pass on his way to the sink to wash off.

But the moment he flickers the faucet on, a steady stream of water pouring from the spout, I notice Johanna's enthusiasm diminish as she winces and jumps away. Peeta notices it, too, and instinctively shuts the valve off.

"Oh. Johanna, I'm sorry—"

She shakes her head. "No, it's alright. You didn't... _know_…" But her shoulders are still squared, her eyes flattened.

When she and Peeta had been seized by the Capitol after the Quarter Quell, both had been tortured incessantly in the hunt for information on the revolution. While Peeta had been hijacked, Johanna's persecution had entailed something entirely different; she was submersed in water and electrocuted. While Johanna does not have episodes of confusion like Peeta, as her mind and memories were never altered, I can recall the fits she'd through in her refusals to bathe while we were in District 13 together. I hadn't realized she was still afraid of water, but by the frantic fear in her brown irises, I can tell we've startled her.

Before weighing out the invitation that bubbles to my throat, I find it spurting from my lips in an immediate attempt at redemption.

"Hey, do you want to take a walk with me? You've already had a good hour with Peeta. I think it's my turn to entertain."

She smiles weakly and obliges; I let her lead me out of the kitchen, and just as I'm slipping through the threshold behind her, I quickly bound over to an anxiously idle Peeta, planting a comforting kiss over his lips.

"I didn't—I didn't mean to scare her… I should _know_ better…" His jaw has hardened, his face flushed underneath the streaks of white dust.

"Don't worry about it, Peeta. I forgot, too. She'll be alright."

And with that, I embrace him once more and hastily meet Johanna at the door.

* * *

As I introduce her to my woods, presenting the grand tour of the forest, we don't speak of the little water incident. She cheers up fairly quickly as we stride through the trees, kicking rocks and breaking branches as we go. Johanna has this inherent habit of laying her palms against the bark of nearly every tree we pass; I don't know if it's due to her upbringing in the lumber district or some odd compulsion, but I suppose it doesn't matter. We all have our peculiar little quirks, and maybe this is hers.

"So this is where you and Gale used to come out all the time?"

The mention of his name stiffens my muscles, but in this frigid cold I imagine the response doesn't project.

"Yeah." _How long ago that seems._ My brow furrows, and I prod, "How did you know that?"

"I've been writing with him since before he asked about the propos," she states matter-of-factly, as if it's inconsequential.

I guess their contact shouldn't surprise me. Their fiery spirits must tailor together fairly well—romantically, I have no doubt that they would chew each other's heads off, but a decent friendship mustn't be too difficult to retain. At least, it wasn't for me and Gale. Selfishly, I wonder if their relationship resembles what I used to have with him.

"Oh." That's all I say.

She can tell she's hit a nerve and silences herself for a moment, overtly fishing for another topic to broach. As she does so, her rosy fingers play at the collar of her leather jacket, attempting to bring it closer to her neck for warmth.

"You must be freezing," I comment.

"It gets pretty cold in Seven, but this district brings a new hell of its own." Her breath visibly puffs out in the afternoon air.

I don't have to think before I begin to unwind my wool scarf from around my neck, handing it to her with a genuine smile across my lips. She accepts it with a mirroring grin—this expression is something I've rarely seen from Johanna. There is no fire in her eyes, no angst, no enthusiastic animation—just alleviated satisfaction. She receives the contribution, thankfully. I'm dressed much more warmly than her as is, with hunting boots and a thick jacket—and the fact that I'm accustomed to this cold while she is not goes without mentioning. Aside from her jeans, her leather sheathing is fairly meager, her short hair cropped as to not even have a shot at covering her frost-bitten ears.

As she encircles the scarf around her shoulders, I see her brown eyes focusing in on me, squinting slightly. I feel my breath catch as I watch her examining me, or my jaw…

Suddenly, her eyes widen in surprise and she jolts backwards, hands covering her mouth in shock.

"You little _harlot_!" she gasps with a demonic giggle.

Defensively, my arms cross over my chest and I revolve slightly away from her. My cheeks, already rosy from the cold, blush wildly. "What?"

"Looks like you and Peeta got pretty damn busy last night!"

The blush only worsens. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Do you not look in the mirror when you wake up?"

This hint breaks through my clouded barrier, a swell of comprehension surging through my veins. My cold fingers fly protectively to the skin of my neck, just along my collar, where I imagine the bruises must be. Never, until now, have I regretted so absolutely wearing my hair in a braid, leaving the marks exposed for the world to see.

Who would've thought that a scarf could've been such a fantastic idea? If only I hadn't taken it off.

"Are they that obvious?"

"Tell me: Was Peeta _trying_ to chomp a good chunk of your throat out?" She's grinning maniacally, her eyes flashing with exhilaration. "If so, I find this whole situation incredibly ironic! I mean, this entire time, we were joking about cooking Peeta when the real cannibal was—"

"Johanna!"

She leans her head back and cackles, and despite the wild embarrassment mushrooming through my nerves, hearing that genuine laugh of hers anchors me. Johanna is really back.

"All I'm saying is that, Brainless, they look like plums on your neck. They couldn't _be_ more apparent."

My fingers prod at the skin where I suspect they lie; it feels a little tender, but only aches dully—so minimally that I hadn't even noticed the pulsing until she mentioned it.

"This is humiliating…"

"Well, I bet Plutarch will be ecstatic. I can almost hear him now: 'The life of our dear Mockingjay, Katniss Everdeen, has improved drastically since the revolution, as her and her husband can't keep their hands off each other! Or their lips.'" Her impersonation of him is uncanny—for a brief moment, a wave of amusement washes over me, but the mortification and shame resurface almost immediately.

"He's not my husband."

"Panem doesn't know that. Remember, you two got 'married' before the Quarter Quell? I'm sure Plutarch is scripting something excessively sappy for the legendary star-crossed lovers of District 12. You're lucky you actually _are_ star-crossed lovers, because I'm pretty sure he would make you two film a propo together even if Peeta still wanted to strangle you."

"How reassuring," I comment flatly. "Does he know that we're together?"

She shrugs. "I have no idea."

My eyes fall to the floor of the forest, watching brown, withering leaves circle around our feet. _I wonder if Gale's aware of anything._

As if she could read my mind, she continues, "I don't think Gale knows, though, which makes me think Plutarch doesn't. In most of our letters, he would ask about you and what I've heard from either you or Peeta. I figured, if there was anything that you deemed important for him to know, you would've told him, so I felt it wasn't my place to divulge anything personal. For the most part, I tried to redirect conversation away from you. I knew that the last thing you and Peeta needed was unwanted attention."

Even though I suppose they shouldn't, little deeds like these surprise me when coming from Johanna. She survives on the pleasure she obtains from playfully frustrating others, so acts of consideration seem bizarre and out of place. Maybe she realized how dire privacy was to my recovery, and Peeta's as well, and wasn't willing to risk anything.

"Thank you," I murmur faintly, my voice getting caught in the bitter chill of the wind.

I'm almost deceived that the mood has calmed when her giggle cuts through the cold as she pitches back my way, "And I see that my handiwork has paid off." She motions to the bruises on my neck.

"Shut up, Johanna. You're lucky I don't have my bow with me."

Her eyebrow raises tauntingly as she bares her teeth in an excited grin.

"You're lucky I don't have my axe."

* * *

_Well, there's a fairly lighthearted chapter (as far as lighthearted chapters go in this angsty tale of mine). So many things happened! What are your opinions on Katniss resenting Gale, and then her attempts at being more attentive toward Peeta? With Gale, I promise, things will cool off because she needs to tie off loose ends in order to be at peace. As with Katniss and Peeta, I thought that it would be a significant step in their relationship if she finally decided to go full-out in her comforting him, and not just with the hallucinations. Peeta's the extremely tuned-in one when it comes to emotions, which is why he's so good at taking care of Katniss, but if she ever wants to reciprocate that, I thought she'd need to actively fight for it. What do you think?_

_And also, do you love Johanna as much as I do?! She's such a fun character to write! Because the rating is teen at the moment, I have to keep her relatively appropriate—but then again, that's what Collins did, and I'm trying to stay pretty close to the original series as is. I don't really intend on making her tip-of-the-scale sexual or have her dropping f-bombs everywhere, because she was always aggressive and sexual in a more refined way in THG trilogy (if that makes sense). I mean, she never went full-out with her expletives and she kept her sexuality fairly subdued. Well, apart from when she stripped naked in the elevator. Oh well._

_Tell me what you think!_


	17. Homecoming

_Hey all! Once again, I am so very grateful for the wonderful reviews I received last chapter. You guys have been giving great suggestions and I'm working on incorporating as many of them as I can into the story! If you want to see something, just tell me and I'll play with it. :)_

_Just so you all know, I have school coming up this week. :( I've been updating every two or three days, and hopefully the new semester won't be too tolling so I'll be able to keep the chapters coming, but if they reduce in frequency, that's why! I'll be working as hard as ever to get these chapters to you, though, so hang tight!_

**_Disclaimer: I own nothing._**

* * *

As dinner comes to a conclusion, Johanna has absolutely worn herself out for the day. For someone who is so characteristically full of energy, by the time the sun has sunk beneath the ragged tree line, her animated excitement has declined to a dull roar; within a minute of us introducing her to her room, she's sprawled on top of the comforter with a snore very much unlike anything I've ever heard from a human buzzing from her throat.

Peeta and I stand in the doorway, a thin sliver of light from the hall casting across her bed. He looks to me with wide eyes.

"What are we supposed to do now?" I can't imagine that either of us had predicted she'd throw in the towel before us. It could've been anything between the travel, or the violent baking experience with Peeta, or the long hike through the woods—or, possibly, the foreignness of the entire day—that exhausted her prematurely.

I shrug. "I don't know. I mean, she's got another long day ahead of her… we should probably just let her get her beauty sleep," I mumble as to not wake her.

Peeta reaches for the knob and I step back, allowing him to delicately nudge it closed. And then the two of us make our way down to the living room to sit by the fire, curling up on the sofa.

"So, this is what being a parent must feel like," Peeta chimes with his carefree chuckle.

My muscles tense, but I resolve myself before the reaction becomes evident. "Trying to entertain a hopelessly active ball of energy for a full day, putting up with whining and screaming and occasionally kicking… sounds absolutely _delightful_, Peeta."

"I have to admit, having a child like Johanna would be absolutely insufferable."

Before us, the flames flicker, licking the charred bark in the hearth in a mesmerizing form. I find my eyes losing focus as they sift through the fire, my mind numbing as I attempt to push the thought of a child from it.

Peeta breaks my trance with another chuckle. "Although having a kid like _you_ wouldn't be much better, I imagine."

_Can you please get off the subject of children?_ My fingers rub my temples and I attempt not to appear as irritated as I'm beginning to feel, but I assume I find little success in concealing it. "Quite a compliment, there."

My jaw is hard as I open my eyes, but the moment my gaze trains on his euphoric expression, and I comprehend the exultant glow in his irises, I cave. Both Peeta and I know that I won't be giving him children, but seeing as it makes him so happy to even just discuss them, I might as well give him that solitary pleasure. He deserves so much more—this is the least I can do.

I sigh and add, "Honestly, Peeta, the only kid that I think I could even survive with is one just like you. You must've been the calmest of babies."

"_Au contraire_, my love. I had colic after I was born. Mom used to always tell me how big of a pain I'd been—I'd keep her and dad up all night, week after week." At this memory, he smiles delicately, the melancholy resonating in his smile more clearly than anything. Even though his relationship with his mother had been strained, to say the least, I know that he still misses her to some degree. I remembered that, growing up, he'd come to school every so often with unexplained bruises; it wasn't until years later that I discovered her hand was behind them. But, of course, the sweet and kindhearted Peeta couldn't hate a soul, especially the soul that birthed him, and so I know recollections of her—and especially of his father and brothers—ignite an ache much like the one I've grown familiar with.

My palm tenderly blankets his knee in a reassuring touch when I find I can't muster the right things to say. I've come to learn that Peeta responds most positively to compassionate embraces, which is nice, considering I've never been talented with verbal consolidation in the first place; only with Prim had the necessary words flown naturally. But maybe that was because I'd known her better than I knew myself. Peeta, on the other hand, may be gentle and affectionate and demonstrative, but the depths of his mind are just as foreign to me as anything. There are millions of facets of Peeta I have yet to discover, which presents a challenge I am nervous but willing to embark on.

His blue irises deepen as he attempts to reassure me that he's alright with a half-hearted grin.

"Maybe that's why you're so calm now," I spit out before the silence can sink further into our cores. "You got all your excess energy out as a baby."

"I suppose I took my parents down with me," he adds. "After my screaming fits, and my brothers' wild raids, my parents swore off more children altogether."

"I can't imagine what the world would be like with more Mellark boys running around."

Once his breath catches, I realize that was definitely _not_ the right thing to say. His blue orbs flatten, his chest depressing as the air seems to evade his lungs.

_There wouldn't be more Mellark boys running around, Katniss_, a callous voice jeers in my head. _They'd be dead._

Suddenly, before I can make a physical attempt at apology, Peeta is standing beside the couch, fists balled.

"I… I need to take a shower. And sleep. I don't feel very well."

"Peeta…"

The early signs of an episode are beginning to bloom in his paling expression. At this stage, it's early enough that these symptoms can occasionally be reversed.

So when he brushes past me on his way up the stairs, I don't stop him.

I remain absolutely still on the sofa, appalled and enraged at my lack of consideration. After seeing how merely the initial thought of his marred him, I should've known better than to press further. I _know_ Peeta better than that.

At least, I hope I do.

Once the sound of running water swells through the house, I push myself up from the cushions and head to the kitchen, filling a bucket with water to douse the flames. After the embers are no longer glowing, I finally drag myself up the stairs, slowing as I pass the closed door of the lit bathroom.

Maybe I should've insisted on escorting him up here. The water has stopped, and from behind the door I hear muted ripples of water as Peeta shifts in the tub. Maybe a bath together would've helped.

I sigh and continue on, heading into our bedroom, which is submerged in ruthless black, uninviting, _cold_ without him. I draw the drapes and sift through the bottom drawer of Peeta's dresser, plucking out a pair of boxers and a t-shirt of his. When I shed my clothes, I hold his just under my nose. Even after washing, they smell like him. _Everything_ smells like him.

And this aroma is the closest thing to home I've been able to find.

I slip into his shirt, then his shorts, and fall back onto the plush of the bed. I ache to have him beside me, to hold me and promise me that everything will be alright…

But, come to think of it, that's what he needs right now even more than I do. _He's_ the one that needs consolation, who needs affection and promise. On top of worrying about Gale and Plutarch and the cameras arriving tomorrow, and being worn out from Johanna's tirades, he now has memories of his deceased family to ward off as a product of my carelessness. He must be petrified right now, and I left him to fend his demons off on his own.

Just as I begin to roll off the bed, I start at the sight of a figure in the doorway. But momentarily after, I realize it's only Peeta, wrapped in a towel, hair damp and percolating droplets of water down the side of his face.

"I'm sorry I ran out on you like that," he whispers softly, hesitantly taking a step into the room as if he's barred from entering. As if this isn't _his_ room.

I drag myself from the comforter, treading up to him in the pale moonlight that floods the room. We're an inch apart now, and I take his hand in mine. His calloused palms feel warm and welcoming against my own, even if his visage reflects a mood far different. His eyes have deepened, his smile vanished; he wilts under my gaze like a hurt puppy.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," I breathe back, and suddenly I'm taking him in my arms, nuzzling my face into the crook of his neck where I seem to fit so perfectly. I couldn't care less that he's essentially naked at the moment, and that his skin is still damp and slippery. He needs to be comforted now, whether or not he's willing to request it.

I let him change into pajama pants first, but no shirt, before I pull him into bed with me. Tonight, instead of curling up in our default sleeping position with my back to his chest, I face him, holding him against me with every ounce of strength my muscles can muster. It is my turn tonight to pepper him with kisses, my lips nestling against his chin, his jaw, his collar. After a few moments of quiet stillness, I feel him trembling slightly against me.

"I miss them," he finally murmurs after a long while, the pain piercing his quiet voice.

"I know." Again, the proper words to say escape me; I don't know how to vocally comfort him. Now is not the time to assure him that I understand his pain, the ache from loss of family; so instead, my fingers find his spine and lightly trace imaginary patterns over the planes and contours of his back, eliciting pleasured shivers where they run.

I feel him sigh in my ear, and even now the hurt is evident in the shakiness of his breath. "I know you can be strong for these propos, Katniss. You've been looking better every day, looking more prepared and confident. You're so brave, and so fearless and strong-willed. And I've tried so hard to be strong for _you_, and encourage you, but I don't know if I can do this. I don't think I have the courage to stand in front of a camera and tell them that everything is perfect around here. It's not. I have you, but you're my only light to guide me and keep me on my feet, and… that's all. My family, and most of my friends, are all gone. I still miss them, Katniss. I miss them so much and I can't bring them back."

This time, when I whisper kisses over his heated skin, still sticky from the shower, I do so with the intent of mending his wounds. Whenever I was shattered, his lips could heal me—I pray that mine can supply the same cure.

"I just don't know what I'm going to say in these propos," he utters quietly to the dark, to my hair. "How I'm supposed to tell Panem that sometimes, we never fully heal?"

What he says only solidifies what I've already discerned.

"Exactly like that," I murmur back, my palms cupping his cheeks as our gazes meet. His eyes are swimming with despondent anxiety, triggering my stomach to twist—I wish I could eradicate his pain, every last ounce of it. "The last thing the people of Panem need is to be thrown lies. Many of them are probably just as broken as we are, and if we tell them that they should be happy because we are, that might push them down even more. Maybe what they need to hear is that things _aren't_ perfect, that this pain is normal and they shouldn't be ashamed for feeling it. I mean, if two revolutionary symbols—three, if you include Johanna—can feel that ache of loss, then so can they. But, of course, things aren't totally hopeless. Both you and I know that. Maybe _that's_ what needs to be said: we are hurt, but things can get better. Things _are_ getting better." And now, my voice lowers, my tone softening as I utter words meant only for him. "We have each other, Peeta. I know it isn't everything, but it's enough. We both have lost our families, but… we _are_ family in some respects. At least, now we are. After all we've been through together, you're my home."

His arms, which have laced around my silhouette, flex with crushing force as he holds me closer to him than ever before. As he nuzzles into my neck, allowing his resolve to break down in front of me, I whisper promises that I will remain with him until the sun stops rising.

For the first time that I can remember, I wish that the fabric in between us was gone so that our skin could fuse together and I'd never have to leave him. But then I convince myself that this craving is excessive, is wrong, is unjustified. As Peeta's arms secure me against him, I wonder if he experiences the same desire that flashed through me. If he ever wants that.

We don't speak more on that topic; we lie there, locked together by tight grasps for what could be hours, before Peeta's breaths steady and I can tell he's beginning to drift off.

Before I fade into black alongside him, I'm instantly roused by a voice so clear it rips me from unconsciousness with a rugged start. I don't know if it's the prior discussion of children that brings this about, or the past conversation about family and about home, but it shocks me nonetheless.

"Do you think you'll ever want kids?"

I yawn and stretch in his arms in attempt to stifle my severe disinterest. "Peeta, I hardly think this is the time to talk about _children_…"

"I know you don't want one now, and for the time being, I don't either… I just want to know if my ambition for the future is worthless or not. Before I burn myself out trying to persuade you for years to come of something you'll never agree to."

His voice is exhausted as he prods, the defeat ringing clear in his tone as he anticipates the worst. After the evening he's had, filled with rejection and gloom, I know that it would absolutely shred him if I were to give him one more burden to contemplate.

But I don't want to lie to him, promising him something that will never come true.

"Ask me again next year."

His brow furrows. "What?"

"Ask me if I'm ready next year. And the year after that. I'm giving you permission to ask me if I want to have a child with you once every year; no more, no less. As of now, it's a no. But I promise you that I will consider it every time you ask. I will give it actual thought. Is that alright?"

Even in the darkness, I can decipher his expended smile as it spreads itself slightly between the corners of his mouth.

"It's better than a flat-out no, which is what I was expecting."

"What brought this on?"

His eyes delve deep into mine as I hastily reroute the conversation, and then they close peacefully.

"I don't know," he whispers, his voice already growing faint as he allows himself to relax. "I guess, when you said that we were a family, I just started thinking…" And then he pauses. "You know, technically, we're not even married yet—"

"Go to sleep, Peeta," I interrupt flatly in refusal to discuss both children _and_ marriage within a three-minute span. My resolute aloofness is not built to survive talks like these.

He just chuckles, his palm brushing over my shoulder. I feel his lips press against my forehead, and within a few moments, both of us have submerged in the temporary dark.

* * *

They come by hovercraft.

It's just before noon when I hear the all-too-familiar rush of aggressive engines passing over my head, blowing a harsh breeze through the woods. The sound is sickening, bringing back bleakly vivid memories of before the revolution, of what the Capitol had been previously.

I guess some things remain the same.

I'm out hunting when they appear, and the moment the alarming _whoosh_ of the turbines begins to echo through the forest, I take off sprinting to the bakery.

"They're here," I gasp as I stumble through the front door of the shop. My braid is decorated with twigs and crispy, dead leaves, my cheeks certainly flushed from running so intently all the way back to the market.

Rory is behind the counter, assisting a customer with boxing a dozen pastries; Johanna is striking up an aggressive conversation with Haymitch behind the doors to the kitchen, but the sounds of their bickering carry to the lobby. However, immediately after my announcement, the bakery falls silent.

Peeta rushes to the front of the shop just before Johanna and Haymitch, and Rory quickly finishes aiding the customer before ringing her out and sending her on her way. Once the door clanks shut behind her, I find myself meriting four alarmed stares. Well, three. Haymitch looks as if he couldn't care less, but that's fairly predictable.

Peeta is the first one to choke anything out. "But the train wasn't set to come into the station today until three—"

"They're coming on hovercraft. Couldn't you hear?" I pant, still struggling to catch my breath. Surely, I thought I'd be in better shape by now, but I guess having a housemate who bakes as often as he breathes can prove to be a minor setback.

Rory lets out an amused huff. "Maybe if Jo and Haymitch would've shut up for two seconds…"

Peeta's flour-dusted hands brush over his forehead as he turns around. "Oh, God. I don't think I can do this."

The sound of Haymitch's merciless chuckle spins him back around to face us, however.

"Since when were you scared of a few cameras, boy? You used to eat that up."

My eyes lock with Peeta's, and in that moment I can pinpoint the source of his fear. It's not the cameras, nor the hovercraft, or the overarching presence of the Capitol.

It's Gale.

I stride across the bakery to wrap my arms around him, pulling my lips an inch from his ear. They momentarily brush against the cartilage there. "Don't worry about him, Peeta."

Maybe she heard me, or she's just incredibly perceptive, but from behind us, Johanna laughs, "You've got nothing to be scared of, Peg-leg. Once he sees what you left on her neck, he won't come within a ten-foot radius of her."

Defensively, my fingers fly to my throat, touching the tender bruises from two nights ago that paint patches of skin a blotchy mixture of plum and yellow tints. How had I managed to forget about those? I need to go home and grab a scarf…

"I know," he chuckles nervously, but the uncertainty in his voice suggests otherwise.

Haymitch's supplement is tinged with slight concern, which is barely detectable behind his typical sarcasm. "Well, before Peeta here worries himself into an episode, how about you all go down to give a nice, hearty welcome to your visitors?"

Johanna nods and starts towards the door; I grab Peeta's hand, but he stands firm.

"I think I'll stay back."

I'm sure my shock is oozing from my every pore as I look back to him. Even though he's gentle, Peeta is fairly severe in his innate protectiveness; I'd thought that he'd want to accompany us as we met the crews to make sure no one interfered with me.

He leans in and presses a half-hearted kiss to my forehead. "I don't think I'm calm enough to meet them yet. Besides, I know… I know that you need to talk to Gale alone. I don't like it, but it's something you need to do, and I can't obstruct that process." And then he donates a weak smile to aid my apprehension. "Don't forget that, as far as they're concerned, we aren't even together. So it's not like they're expecting me."

Our lips converge for a brief moment before I'm following Johanna out the door. I expect at least Rory to follow, but he remains behind the counter.

"Don't you want to see your brother?" I ask as I pause in the threshold.

His grey eyes have never looked so tired. "Maybe later."

I ache to inquire if he's hesitant to see his brother because he's afraid of what Gale has become, much like I am, but I silently conceal my surprise and head out onto the road.

Johanna and I take a quick detour to my house before we head to the fields at the edge of the district where we assume they've landed. After I've bolted upstairs to grab a scarf and return with it looped around my neck to veil the marks, I find Johanna laughing at me.

"Why are you so ashamed of a few love bites?"

"I'm not," I bite back defensively. "I just don't want the first thing they notice about be to be the bruises."

"You mean the first thing that _Gale_ notices."

Whatever she's insinuating hits a sore spot and I grit my teeth. "Shut your mouth, Johanna."

I assumed she'd let it drop, but as we pound down the dirt trail on our way to the clearing, she cackles once more. "Maybe Loverboy _did_ have something to worry about."

This cuts deep, and I find myself whirling around to face her, fury raging in my expression with my face just inches from hers. "That is _not_ it, and you know it."

"I do know that." She seems unfazed by my temper. "But Peeta's a little more insecure than I am. Tell me: when Peeta sees you hiding the only physical evidence that you're his, what will you say to him?"

"The truth," I bark back, stomping off angrily down the road like a whiney child.

I hear her loping behind me, her cackle ringing in the bitter air. "And what is that, exactly?"

Either she's finding pleasure in being excruciatingly frustrating, or she thinks she's actually helping me discover the real reason that I'm hiding the love bites. I refuse to look into her brown eyes, sparkling with electrified anticipation, as she skips at my side. The aggravation burns in my throat, bubbling behind my lips, and before I can even begin to filter my tirade it comes pouring from my mouth.

"The _truth_ is that I don't want any of them, especially Gale, to know that Peeta and I are together by seeing my neck. That's not good enough. I want to be the one to tell them, and if at all possible, I'd like to tell them while Peeta is with me. Bruises don't identify the person who made them, Johanna. I don't want them to question if it is Peeta or not. I want them to know that it is Peeta, and it has always _been_ Peeta, and will always _be_ Peeta. I want them to know this by the way that he always as an arm around my waist, by the way that I kiss him, by the way that we look at each other, by the way we hold each other together when the world around us is incontrovertibly broken. _Not_ by a few damn bite marks."

When I finally manage to direct my eyes, hazy with irritation and spite, toward the woman walking beside me, I see that she is smiling excitedly.

"That's my girl."

By the time we arrive at the clearing to see the large hovercraft parked inconsiderately on the meadow, I find that I am not anxious like I have been all week. I am not afraid, I am not nervous.

I am angry.

The hovercraft has landed directly in the center of the meadow under which lies the graves of thousands of District 12 citizens. Although not one of the passengers probably understand the significance of the ground they're on, the fact that they had to land _here_, of all places, infuriates me.

The door underneath the metal vessel unseals, lowering a ramp down to the field, barren and icy from the looming winter. Johanna and I stand a good hundred yards away, our breaths swirling in front of us, and when I look to her, she is clearly indignant as well—for different reasons, I assume, unbeknownst to me.

I feel her hand grasping my wrist and I take it in my own. When I don't have access to Peeta, I take comfort in the notion that I can always turn to her; we're doing this together. We may be broken, but we are strong in the other's company.

My breath catches as the first body begins to make its way down the incline. Immediately, from the thicker stature and the greying hair, I know it's not Gale.

"Ms. Everdeen! Ms. Mason! How wonderful to see you again," Plutarch calls across the clearing. Now, we are treading over to him, movements steady and resolute, faces stony.

"How've you been, Plutarch?" Johanna's voice tolls at my side, bright but still particularly unfeeling.

"I've been better." We are now face-to-face with him. His eyes look more tired than I've seen them before, his smile worn, but he appears just as optimistic as ever. "Being Secretary of Communications is no easy task."

"I'm sure corralling us all together wasn't a picnic," I append flatly.

I suppose I have no inherent reason to despise Plutarch other than his possible role in my sister's death—although, even that is only alleged. I guess it's just his positivity, his obnoxious sociability, that has always irritated me. But he's looked out for me since as long as I've known him, so maybe for this one visit, I can cut him some slack and at least tolerate his presence. I know he's only attempting to do what is best for Panem as a whole; stepping on toes is an unintended byproduct.

"Not in the slightest." He smiles genuinely. "In the end, I couldn't persuade Mrs. Odair to attend, but I'm sure that you two and Mr. Mellark will be a great deal of help on your own."

Before I could even see him making his way down the ramp, or up behind Plutarch, suddenly, a fourth figure has become a part of the conversation.

My temples pulse and I feel my mouth dry.

"Hey, Johanna." His eyes focus on me. "Catnip."

Momentarily, the familiar nickname begins to thaw my stony diffidence, but I manage to compose myself in light of the circumstances.

"Gale." And that's all I greet him with, along with a slight nod.

"You're looking better," he adds before Plutarch can continue, ignoring the small fact that there are two other beings at our sides. "Healthier."

"You, too."

And he is, in some respects; with Capitol meals, the man has filled into his already sturdy frame. His muscles have toughened, his previously hollowed cheeks filled with color. But his eyes, the eyes that used to hold so much fire and drive have flattened, his hair cropped short and styled neatly to harmonize with his formal attire.

Even though the remnants of my old friend still remain, he is now predominantly a Capitol creation. Even his smile has tamed.

I feel my chest ache.

"Here, let me show you where you'll be staying for the next week or so." I've turned away before either of the men before me can detect the moisture welling in my eyes. If it comes to it, I imagine that I can blame tears on the icy wind whipping through the meadow. But I certainly hope it doesn't.

Johanna is at my side in an instant. "Are you okay?" she whispers.

I nod to the sound of crunching footsteps behind me. Gale has now accepted a conversation with the ever-so-chatty Plutarch, but I feel his eyes on my back, so I do not turn around to look.

The four of us pace to the Victor's Village in relative silence, apart from Plutarch's intermittent diatribes. Once we've passed under the forlorn metal arch that bows over the entrance to the row of houses, I tell Plutarch that he can stay in any one he likes. Surprisingly, he declines and pronounces that he can stay in his suite in the hovercraft. I snort at the image of a compacted apartment holding the oh-so-privileged Plutarch Heavensbee for a full week, but he swears that it's much like the one he has in the Capitol and he might as well keep an eye on the crew members that will also be occupying the chambers in the vessel. Johanna also shocks me by offering to walk him back to the hovercraft or show him around Twelve.

And suddenly, it is just me and Gale, bearing the bitter cold together.

"You can stay in my place," I tell him coldly. _Or what used to be my place_.

He remembers which one it was and leads me up the steps. I unlock the door for him, and the moment he enters, he begins to cough on the dust moats that swirl in the air.

"Oh, god, Catnip. When was the last time you dusted this place?"

His sociability loosens a brick in the wall I've erected around myself. "It's been a few months."

He flickers on a light switch, illuminating an essentially barren room. Although the basic furniture is still in place, all of the pictures on the walls have been relocated, every sign of living vanished.

Gale turns to me, eyes wide. "Oh."

"What?" I bite, more acridly than intended.

A floorboard creaks below his heavy boots as he takes a step closer to me. His listless eyes are now filled with concern as he lifts a finger to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear that's escaped my braid. Just as he always used to. For a brief moment, I consider flinching away from his touch, but ultimately decide against it.

"You haven't been okay, have you?"

"What makes you think that?"

His eyes survey the room as a response. _He thinks I'm too broken-down to even take care of my own house_.

Being here with Gale, in what used to be my home, ignites a dull ache in my chest as a wave of nostalgia washes over me. Even from a foot away, I can tell that he still smells the same. He may have changed, but regardless of that notion he is _still_ Gale, the man that used to mean the world to me.

"I've been better recently. Really."

He takes a step into the vacant living room, running a finger over an end table, picking up a film of dust as he does so.

"How did Johanna react to this place?"

"She hasn't been in here. She's staying over at Peeta's."

Even though he doesn't look at me, as his eyes flicker to the floor, I notice a strange element of satisfaction in his expression. As if he thinks I'm insinuating that there's something going on between those two, or I'm attempting to initiate something between _us_.

I feel myself gag at the thought of both alternatives.

"Was that her choice or his?"

"No, it was primarily mine," I snap back almost immediately. How _dare _he even think that… that they were _together_ or something…

His eyes flicker to me in surprise.

I feel the taste of resentment as it fizzles behind my lips, my face growing hotter as I realize that the confession is going to come out much sooner than planned. Oh god, I wish Peeta was here to help me tell him…

I begin to inch towards the admission. "Actually, Peeta and I decided together to have her stay there and you stay here."

His brow arches in muted surprise. "Oh?" He steps closer. "Have you two been talking?"

I nod.

"Well, I guess I should've assumed you both would have some sort of interaction, considering you live within a hundred feet of each other." And then he gulps. "I just thought that maybe you'd want to keep your distance."

"And why is that, exactly?" My tongue curls around every word as I spit them out, the irritation in my tone dripping from each syllable.

He runs his fingers through his much shorter hair and avoids my glare. "He's just… I don't know, he's unpredictable."

_Unpredictable?_ Peeta is one of the most concrete souls I know. Yes, he has his episodes, but he has redeveloped into the boy he used to be. If anyone is entitled to the label "unpredictable," it would undoubtedly be the man that stands before me who has morphed into some alien Capitol concept.

I open my mouth to hiss something back at him, but suddenly he's just inches away from me, his breath whispering over my face.

"Let's take a walk, shall we?"

I feel as if I don't have much of a choice, so I consent and push my way through the front door. My feet loudly thump down the steps, along the dirt pathway, with no delay to wait for Gale to catch up. I make him struggle to meet my pace.

"Twelve has really changed, hasn't it?" he huffs at my side as I trek down the road, journeying toward town. His upbeat tone and rerouting of conversation imply one of two things: Either Gale is embarrassingly oblivious, or he suspects that discussion of Peeta will bring an admission he doesn't want to hear.

But the redirection comes as a relief to me. It means that I don't have to tell him right now when I'm all by myself.

"Yeah." If I was trying to be friendly, I'm sure I would've found my weak response repulsive.

He rubs his hands together by his mouth, exhaling a cloud of breath over them for warmth. "It feels so… empty."

"The population is significantly smaller than it was before the revolution, but it's growing little by little. The Hob's become a fairly successful market, and they've rebuilt the schools…"

As we verge on the edge of town, Gale sighs at my side. "That's good. I'm glad that there's at least some sort of recovery here. The Capitol's getting along alright, but I really had no idea what things were like out here. I'd heard a few positive reports but I didn't know what I could trust."

"Things aren't exactly peachy, but we make do with what we have." As I speak, I attempt to swallow down some of the acidity that infringes on my tone. "We're all getting better little by little."

Despite my stanch determination to keep my gaze forward, I can see through my peripheral vision that he's watching me with a concern identical to what he'd shown before.

"Even you?"

I clench my teeth as I feel my resolve falter, and I cave to catch his grey stare.

"Even me," I utter through the cold. I'm unsure of why he's pressing so hard on this, as if he suspects I'm lying to him about my slow but steady recovery. "It's been a year, Gale. Did you expect us to still all be broken?"

His fingers scratch at the back of his head. "I don't know _what_ I expected." When, out of the blue, I feel his palm press lightly against my shoulder as if to reassure me in some odd, inexpert form, I assume I'll flinch away. But I don't. "I'm just thankful you're doing alright. I was really worried about you."

"You really underestimate my determination, Gale." But in a way, I suppose his concern isn't unmerited. If it hadn't been for Peeta and his unyielding affection, I would've probably become more decrepit than I originally began as, crippled by fear and by hopelessness.

He exhales through a slight smile. "You've always been strong-willed, I'll give you that."

We're nearing the edge of town now; within a minute we'll be to the market, to Peeta's bakery. Hopefully, by then, Peeta will be in a stable enough condition to aid me in telling Gale what I've been on the verge of admitting for several minutes now. The confession feels like a sleeping volcano; for now, it lies in quiet, but any moment now I fear it could spontaneously burst from my icy lips.

I resort to temporary silence as we walk together; his palm drops from my shoulder, a swell of relief coursing through me as he does so. The distance between us feels comfortable at the moment.

Just as I'm settling into this cozy quiet among us, Gale surprises me with an unanticipated profession.

"I missed you, Catnip."

My feet trip a little as I pace down the path, my breath hitching somewhere in my throat, but I manage to catch myself before I look like a fool and stumble.

Maybe it's the nickname, or maybe it's the unadulterated honesty in his voice that pushes me over, but I feel my walls crumbling down around me. Despite the resentment I feel for him and the man he's become, I know that I can't freeze him out forever. I do not love him, and I certainly never will, but Gale is a part of my past that cannot be ignored.

And so I cannot deny my reciprocation.

"I miss you, too." There is no fiction to that statement. I do miss him, in every sense of the word. I miss our little hunting endeavors, the way that I could tell him anything, the way that he made me feel like a human when the world cast me out. I miss that Gale, and I suppose I always will. I would trade this resolute, formal, somber Gale for him any day of the week.

But that Gale is gone.

He smiles gloomily at my side—I expect him to say something more, but now we've reached the edge of town, the market resting just down the street.

Even in this bitter cold, my palms are sweating.

"So, this is District 12."

"And that's the market?" He points to the rows of shops.

I nod. "There's something I have to show you."

We tread over the icy dirt beneath our boots, bullied by the harsh wind that swells through the district. As we near the bakery, I feel the dormant confession beginning to stir, my stomach twisting painfully as I realize it must be said any moment now.

"There's so many shops," he muses at my side, his eyes flickering around as he attempts to take it all in. "This place has really risen from the ashes."

"I think we've all risen from the ashes to some degree," I pipe back. We're growing nearer now with the building in sight.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but I'm… I'm sort of surprised that you came so far on your own."

My innards flip as I realize there couldn't have been a more perfect instant for him to confess this. Up until this point, I wasn't quite sure of how I was going to bridge the old conversation to the topic of Peeta, but now it all seemed to fit together so effortlessly.

"I didn't," I respond flatly.

I hear his breath hitch. "No?"

"We started to talk about this earlier, but you changed the subject before I could tell you… I've been talking to Peeta lately. Well, since he returned, really—and it's certainly helped me pull through."

He doesn't say anything as we trudge along the way, and when I finally look to him, his olive-toned skin looks a little green, his chest compressed as if he's just had the wind knocked out of him. Finally, his pained eyes look to mine.

"And he hasn't hurt you?"

I feel my chest heave with the suggestion, my eyes blazing. _How could that be the first thing he thought?_ "No. He still has his episodes, but they've—they've gotten less violent, I guess. I'm usually with him when they happen to help calm him down, and it's grown a lot easier recently."

Now Gale has stopped in his tracks.

"You've been _near_ him? Katniss, do you understand how dangerous that is?"

My stomach constricts as if I've just been punched in the gut. It sure feels like it.

"I think I would understand a little bit better than you what the dangers are. I'm the one who's been trying to assuage them for almost a year now." My response is cold, even, severe. Gale had seen Peeta in his worst days, right after he'd been retrieved from Snow's regime—so for a brief moment, I can understand where his fear comes from, but by this point in time I would've hoped he'd empathize with him more. Or that he'd at least assume Peeta had grown more stable with time.

He shakes his head in disbelief, his thick fingers rubbing his temples. "No. The doctors said that he wouldn't ever recover… at least, not fully…"

"Well, he has enough to get on with his life. If you look right ahead of you, you'll see the bakery he built himself and is running with the help of Haymitch and your little brother."

I can't recall the last time I'd been as blatantly cruel in testimony. I knew that Rory hadn't informed Gale of his employment for a reason. He was afraid that Gale would grow angry or resentful, knowing that Peeta was gaining more attention from Rory—and me, but that's an entirely different matter—than he could.

And Rory couldn't have been more accurate in his prediction.

Gale's eyes squeeze shut and he covers his mouth with his hands as if he's about to be sick. He certainly _looks_ like he's about to vomit.

I turn to face him as he stumbles backwards, yet managing to maintain his balance.

"I can't… I can't _believe_ this…"

_Maybe if you would've taken the time out of your damn busy schedule to write me before Paylor and Plutarch put you up to it, I could've told you earlier._

I hear a door slam behind me, and suddenly Peeta is at my side, Johanna and Haymitch right behind him; Plutarch pushes past to help steady Gale before us, a flushed Rory following soon after.

There are too many people here. My mind is growing fuzzy, my knees quivering as a spell of vertigo overcomes me; thankfully, Peeta's arm wraps around my waist, holding me to him with a strength that promises me he won't let me fall. I look to him, searching for his blue eyes in my clouding vision, seeking out the assurance I need.

He does me one better; his free palm cups my jaw and his lips gently press to mine, yanking me back into reality.

When my eyes flutter open after the kiss has broken, my gaze finds Gale, who looks greener than ever. His color has drained, his lips pale, his entire body trembling; the steadfast, austere man that arrived under an hour ago has been replaced by a frightened boy.

"Are you two—are you and him—"

I feel Peeta watching me with unambiguous concern as I gulp down the fear that claws at my throat.

"Yes. We're together."


	18. Capitol Dandelions

_Sorry it took so long to post this chapter! It's only the first week back at school but already, things have been absolutely insane. I have my first show choir competition of the season tomorrow (Saturday) which has been demanding a lot of my time for rehearsals. Not to mention, the actual competition will be over 12 hours long. So I won't get much writing done this weekend. :/_

_On the bright side, I've started writing the chapter that deals with Peeta and Katniss's intimacy (it's coming up soonish!) so at least there's something to look forward to!_

_Once again, sorry it took longer than usual, but here it is! Enjoy!_

**_Disclaimer: I own nothing!_**

* * *

After Plutarch and Rory have steadied Gale so that he doesn't look as if he's about to faint any longer, he gathers himself just enough to stalk away toward the woods. Only now, he doesn't look frightened; he looks _infuriated_. He yells a few manic locutions my way before trudging wrathfully away from us as a handful of strangled sobs escape from my chest. Instinctively, my body lurches forward with the intent of following him, but Peeta's grasp around me tightens.

"Let him go blow off some steam, love." His voice is gentle, lulling; it liberates the thick veneer of tension that coats my entire body just enough so that I can finally breathe again.

Johanna helps Peeta usher me into the bakery where I fall into a chair, my eyes glassed over. I'm in a daze. My mind is muddled, fried in its surrender.

My fingers push vagrant wisps of hair from my face. I feel hot.

Peeta crouches in front of me, blue orbs brimming with unfathomable concern. "Are you alright?"

With a pathetic sniffle, I nod minutely, absently; my eyes have lost focus. For a brief second, I note that his fingers are wrapped tightly around the edge of the table, knuckles whitened from the pressure—the early signs of an oncoming episode begin to bloom in his eyes. But he gulps down his stress and pins his concentration on my mental state as I see him fight against the rising hallucinations, staying strong for me.

Johanna brings me a cup of water; she hands it to Peeta to give to me. He lifts the glass and deliberately wraps my fingers around it, helping me bring it to my lips, as if he doesn't trust me to drink on my own. I must be as white as a sheet.

"I don't want to talk about this," I murmur softly once Peeta's hands have left mine. Over the past year, I've become a master at avoiding my problems. For now, this strategy seems best.

He smiles glumly at me and brushes his palm, minutely trembling as he fights off the potential episode, over my frost-bitten cheek. "How about I make you a batch of cheese buns?"

This proposition elicits a slight grin from me and I nod again. After he plants a reassuring kiss on my forehead and ventures off to the kitchen, a shamefaced Rory appears in front of me.

"I'm so sorry, Katniss."

Rory's apology seems not only extremely out-of-place, but makes my stomach wrench as well. The boy's eyes, grey and multifaceted, remind me of his brother's.

I shake my head and bring the glass of water to my dry lips again. "You have nothing to apologize for."

"I feel like I need to apologize for _him_." His indignant timbre triggers my gut to coil even further.

My throat is growing thicker again and I command myself not to cry. "Please don't, Rory. He has the right to be upset. I should've found a better way to tell him."

"But he shouldn't have overreacted like that. He's my brother, but I… I don't know him anymore, Katniss. I don't know what this war has done to him."

_It's stolen the man that used to be my best friend._ "He's changed so much."

Rory sighs, collapsing in the chair to my side. His hands, which are trembling slightly, drag through his chestnut hair before rubbing his tired eyes.

"Please, Katniss, don't be too upset. He's just not comfortable with how much he cares about you." Unexpectedly, he lets out a humorless chuckle. "I mean, for heaven's sake, he would always ask about you in his letters, and I was too afraid to tell him about how you and Peeta are together now because I knew he'd lose his temper. He's always had a temper, but I feel like now that he's in the Capitol, he has no release. So he lets his anger build and build until he can't control it anymore. And it's distorted him, Katniss. He's not happy anymore."

"I can tell," I murmur back despondently, thinking of how whenever Gale smiles, the grin is contained in his lips; it never seems to touch his eyes in the way it used to.

Rory sighs. "In the past few weeks, by the way he's been writing to me, I think he expected that seeing you would finally give him some peace of mind again. Like being around you would make things go back to the way they were before. But then he came here, and he realized that everything's changed, and if I have to guess, the reason he lashed out when he saw you and Peeta was because he realized that what's happened is irreversible. And that if he was looking to find happiness by being with you, he won't receive it."

Rory's analysis of his older brother's actions proves to be much more insightful than an evaluation I could've provided. His explanation makes perfect sense. The only authentic pleasure Gale's ever experienced was before the war; he was hoping that, by returning to Twelve, he'd be able to rediscover some of that happiness. Even though we all know that Panem is much better off this way, there are certainly aspects from before the war that we miss. Like the stability. Like our families. It may have been oppressive, it may have been suffocating, but Twelve used to be Gale's home—and I can imagine that the Capitol is far less fulfilling to him. He must've thought that returning to this place would reinstate some of what he'd lost.

But Twelve has changed too much. Whatever he was wishing to come back to is gone.

My chest pangs as I ache with the thought of Gale—deep down, I do pity him. The revolution hadn't broken just me or Peeta. It had crushed Gale as well. And, while I have Peeta to encourage me through my darkest days and kiss my scars, physical and emotional, Gale has no one. Even in a city so lively and action-packed, the Capitol can be quite a lonely place. I have Peeta, my hope, my dandelion.

But I hear dandelions don't grow in the Capitol.

Rory doesn't say much more to me after presenting his analysis of the situation, and I let my eyes wander around the bakery, training momentarily on Johanna and Plutarch. They seem to be having some sort of relatively contained dispute; an irritated wrath emanates from her deliberate gestures, while Plutarch's innocent defensiveness is illustrated by his. Johanna is motioning toward the door, and I catch a few words. _Did you stop to think that bringing him here could break your little mockingjay?_ I elect not to eavesdrop any further and my focus directs elsewhere. I hear Haymitch pestering Peeta around the kitchen, their voices wafting to the lobby of the bakery.

The occasional customer wanders into the shop every so often, and within seconds Peeta is out to help him or her. Once they've parted, he pays a quick visit to me to steal a kiss or two. I doubt he's aware of how uplifting actions as simple as these have become to me.

After some time, when Rory has disappeared behind the kitchen doors, Plutarch wanders over to me and attempts to apologize. I don't quite understand why everyone _except_ for Gale seems to be so contrite in response to the events of this afternoon. The only apology that matters is one I doubt I'll be getting anytime soon.

After Plutarch departs from the bakery, Johanna is suddenly before me.

"That could've gone worse," she chimes.

I laugh grimly. "Sure."

"No, I'm serious. Just imagine what would've happened if you'd have taken off your scarf."

Even though the illustration that configures in my mind causes me to wince, her matchless jauntiness lifts my spirits just enough to stir a smile from my lips.

"Great. I have even _more_ clashes to look forward to."

She pulls a chair in front of me, sliding into it as she leans in. "Well, what were you expecting? It's Gale. He's always had quite the temper. Not to mention, he has some remnant feelings for you that he doesn't quite understand."

Even though I've been aching to deny it, I know that it's true. I just thought that, by this stage, the lengthy separation would've eliminated those vestigial emotions on his behalf. "I don't know what I was expecting." And now, my voice is lowering with guilt. "To be honest, I _wanted_ him to be angry at first. But then, when we were walking here, I realized that even though he's very different than he used to be… he's still Gale. And I didn't want to hurt him."

The inviting scent of rising bread and cheese fills the already warm bakery. As the aroma ribbons around me, I feel my muscles begin to unwind.

Johanna laughs. "If it makes you feel any better, Brainless, he was going to be hurt no matter what you did."

"It really doesn't, but thanks."

"Just… give him a little time to cool off. And then you can give it a second go. You know, he won't stay angry forever, especially if you're the one to try to calm him down. And also, if there's anyone's neck that the kid wants to wring, it's probably Peeta's, not yours." She winks. "So you're good to go!"

Again, her dark attempts at humor don't comfort me much, but the guidance will suffice. Even though Johanna can be a major pain in my ass, she's quite intelligent as well as attentive and offers advice I can rarely find elsewhere.

Within a few moments, Peeta emerges from the kitchen, bearing a plate stacked with steaming cheese buns. He slips them on the table beside me, and despite my lack of appetite, the scent alone and Peeta's encouraging expression entice me to take one in my unsteady fingers.

Johanna announces that she'll be heading back to the house for a few hours before dinner. With Haymitch and Rory working away in the back, Peeta and I are left alone in the lobby. It's felt like years since it was just us two, and the seclusion is oddly comforting.

"Are you feeling any better?" he prompts delicately, softly. He's now seated in the chair that Johanna had occupied, elbows against his knees, jaw propped up in his palms.

With the divine taste of the cheese buns swirling around in my mouth, when I respond with a resolved, "Yes," my honesty is unquestionable.

We carry a lighthearted conversation for several moments; Peeta does not bring up Gale, as he is incessantly considerate. The two of us discuss fairly trivial matters, such as what I want him to make us all for dinner, and if I'll allow him to paint another portrait of me tonight by the fire. He kisses me every so often, randomly, without provocation.

Those are my favorite kinds of kisses—the ones that I don't expect, the ones that seem underserved, the ones that sweep me off my feet. They make me feel alive.

After a small family consisting of a father, a mother, and two young sons passes into the bakery, I bid Peeta goodbye with one final kiss. As I'm parting, I momentarily exchange glances with the mother of the family. She smiles at me with a fairly contained grin, but her eyes are beaming expansively. For a second, her gaze flickers to Peeta and then back to me; it is then that I understand exactly what's running through her mind. Like many of the adults in Twelve, she's delighted by the sight of me and Peeta together. Our relationship seemed to be one of the most symbolic unions that survived the revolution, and seeing the star-crossed, Capitol-defying lovers as a remaining unit promises a little glimmer of hope when the aftermath of the war seems to grant no mercy. If we remain, so can anyone.

My feet naturally carry me on my way back toward the Victor's Village, but as a chilled wind slices through my core, I change my course. I begin to bound in the direction of the forest in search of Gale.

I can't avoid him forever—and I might as well catch him before his fury can warp into something much more grotesque.

The fact that I find him within the first five minutes insinuates a fortunate notion: Gale wants me to find him. If Gale had preferred isolation, he would've hidden better. Even though it's been far over a year since he last ventured into these woods, I'm sure he's memorized them well enough so that he could disappear for days if desired. But the first place I visit in my hunt for him is the place that reveals him.

Although I certainly could be discreet, I don't want to surprise him by my entrance. So when I approach him, I recklessly crunch through the piles of leaves that clutter the forest floor. He's propped up against the rock that we used to spend so many afternoons against, knees tucked into his chest. Even though I'm positive that he hears my advancement, he remains perfectly still.

In fact, it is me who starts at the sound of his voice piercing the silence.

"How long have you been with him?"

I am not surprised at his brusqueness. Gale has never been one for subtlety.

I'm now standing at his side, looming over his stagnant figure; half of me longs to sit beside him as we used to, while the other half is begging for me to turn and run as far away from him as I can manage.

"I don't really know exactly when it started." And that is no lie, no attempt at evading his question. Growing back with Peeta has been an authentically gradual process. There was no definite point where we went from being apart to together, only smaller milestones. Such as our first dinner together, my first night in his bed, our first kiss. Not one single event can encompass the entire progression.

His head twists slightly to acknowledge me, but his eyes don't even attempt to meet mine.

"You can sit down, if you want."

The invitation is exactly what I'd needed. My muscles unwind just slightly as I drop down to his side, leaning against the solid firmness of the rock, coolness seeping through the back of my jacket. A considerable space remains between us, but at least we're on the same level now.

After several moments of silence, Gale must recognize I'm not quite prepared to demolish my reserve just yet, and so he continues. "I want to be angry at you for not telling me earlier, and I suppose I'm a little upset… but I know that I've got to shoulder just as much blame. For the past few months, I've been asking everyone _except_ for you about you and Peeta. I asked Rory, Johanna… I don't know why I didn't just write a damn letter to you about it. Maybe it's because, deep down, I knew that I would receive an answer I didn't want to hear."

My fingers mindlessly play with my scarf as I feel my resentment for him beginning to wane. "I should've just mentioned it in one of the first letters I wrote back to you."

"You didn't owe me an explanation for something I had been too wimpy to ask for, Katniss," he flings back almost immediately, his voice slightly more acidic than expected. "You didn't owe me _anything. _You still don't. I only wrote you that letter because Paylor and Plutarch asked me to. If I was even half the man that I used to be, I would've worked up the courage to contact you before then."

Involuntarily, I feel my face whip over to him, surprised at his confession. So he was aware of it all. How he'd changed, distorted in the shadow of the revolution.

"Don't degrade yourself like that," I mutter into the cold.

His jaw twists so that his face aligns with mine, his hollow grey eyes locking with mine for the first time since the little debacle outside the bakery.

"Why not? You see it too, Katniss. Don't pretend you don't."

He watches me with a bizarre expression of self-loathing, one that I had never expected to see resonating from Gale's features. It was something I often saw in Peeta after one of his episodes had torn him apart.

I sigh, my jaw hardening as my eyes flicker down to the earth below us. "You've changed, Gale. But that doesn't make you less of… less of a _person_—"

"Then why aren't you with me?" he snaps tersely.

I feel my breath hitch in my lungs as I find myself the subject of his glare once more, my entire body growing numb.

Before my mind can even properly react to the outburst, his head shamefully bows and he rubs his eyes wearily. "I'm sorry. I don't—I didn't mean it like that."

"Then what did you mean?" I utter flatly.

He sighs, his eyes fixing on the sky, helpless and emptied.

"You used to want to run away with me, Katniss." My heart pangs at the memory. "I used to be what you needed. And then, suddenly, I wasn't anymore. And the longer I've spent in the Capitol, the further I've grown from whatever that was, and… I mean, I hardly know you anymore."

_Funny, I could say the same thing about you._

My palms press against the frozen dirt below us, taking a crisp, half-crumpled leaf in my hands as I exhale. "My needs have changed, Gale. I've watched too many people die, several at my own hand, to remain the same throughout all this."

"And so have I."

Although my stomach wrenches, craving to point out that one of the casualties accredited to his handiwork was my own sister, my innocent, perfect sister, I hold my tongue.

I carefully select my words before I proceed; the last thing I want to do is offend him more than I already have. But my oncoming spiel surely won't provide the assurances that he so desires, so I fear that hurting him is inevitable. Nevertheless, I take a deep breath and let myself go.

"I don't think that commonality makes us anymore alike," I begin softly, cautiously. "Back when we were growing up, after our fathers died in the accident, you were my escape from the world. You made me happy even when joy seemed impractical and you reminded me that I wasn't alone. But after the games, and the Quarter Quell, and the war… Gale, I don't need an _escape_ anymore. I just need to be healed. I want to feel whole again, no matter how unfeasible that goal seems. I need someone to pick up my broken pieces, over and over again, because, when all is said and done, I can't seem to hold myself together. And I need someone who not only comforts me after my nightmares, but who understands their components and can help me break them down. I'm sorry if that doesn't make much sense, but it makes sense to me, and I suppose that's all that really matters in this situation. Look, Gale, I really care about you. You know that. But you're… you're so avid, so vengeful, so… so _passionate_. At least, that's the man that I originally fell for. But this world broke me, Gale. It _shattered_ me. And after everything, I don't need someone who is so fervid and ruthless and can help me avoid my fears. I need someone gentle. Someone accepting. Someone hopeful. Someone patient. And I just… I found that in Peeta."

I suppose it's never easy to hear a detailed explanation of why the person you care for has sworn their allegiance to someone else, but I hope to make this process a little more painless for Gale. I speak slowly and gently, watching his reaction to every phrase and readjusting the following sentences accordingly. About halfway through, however, his eyes squeeze shut as I realize he wants to hear no more. But I can't stop. He _needs_ to hear it, whether he wants to or not. If Gale and I are ever going to reach a civil equilibrium where we can be friends without the unnecessary heartache, this conversation needs to occur.

After I finish, a painful silence hangs in the air over our heads, threatening and malicious all the same. My heart rate speeds as I await his response for what feels like hours.

Finally, his eyes open and he forces out a solemn smile.

"I'll be happy for you, Katniss. One day, at least. I think it just might take a little time to settle in." He runs his fingers through his short-cropped hair. It'll be a while before I grow accustomed to how proper, how formal he looks nowadays. "I'm sorry I can't be what you need now. I wanted to be, you know."

My grin is just as remorseful as his. "I know." And then, more lightly, I add, "But that's alright. You were everything that I needed for the time being, before the rebellion, which was more than enough."

And that is nothing less than the absolute truth. Before the games and the war, Gale had provided the happiness I seldom could find elsewhere. He helped me survive and gave me company. And I did love him then. I suppose I still love him now, but in a far different way. I love Gale in a hushed, simple, platonic way—which varies greatly from my ardent love for Peeta, in its pure, all-encompassing grandeur.

In the end, I think we all need both types to survive.

After several moments of settling silence, Gale asks me something I wasn't expecting.

"Do you love him?"

I anticipate my body to be overcome with rigidity, with fear and hesitation. In part, that's how my initial reaction arises.

But after the preliminary shock has subsided, I feel a simmering blush bloom in my cheeks, a shy smile spreading over my lips, characterized by childish innocence.

"I think I might," I laugh, realizing that I've never told Peeta this. In truth, I've always loved Peeta, but not in that implausibly prodigious manner that's reserved for only one.

And, in the same way that I cannot pinpoint the exact moment in which Peeta and I bridged from being two divisions to a singular entity, I don't believe that there will be one explicit moment in which I can say I love Peeta in _that_ way when I didn't a moment prior. I believe it's a process. You don't wake up one morning loving someone that powerfully that you hadn't the night before.

But if there is ever a point in which I can testify, with resolute certainty, that I love Peeta unconditionally and eternally, I'd say that moment is just on the horizon.

* * *

_I love writing chapters that end happy. :) Tell me what you're thinking and leave a review if you can!_

_And have an absolutely wonderful weekend!_


	19. The Dove

_Hey all! Thought I'd surprise you with a quick chapter! When I publish a chapter, I usually have the one after that already written, just so I have an extra chapter saved up. But I thought I'd post this one for you guys since I didn't update for so long last time. I'll try to have another one for Friday if I can!_

_ Once again, thank you so much for the reviews and adding me to your alerts! Your support means the world to me. :)_

_So for this chapter, like the last few, there's a little Everlark scene but the rest of it is primarily plot filler. But hey, I got to bring in even more characters and even invent one of my own. I hope you guys like it! If you don't, and you're eager to get back to the hardcore Everlark action, I promise we'll be back soon enough!_

_**Disclaimer: The Hunger Games characters and setting and all that jazz are property of Suzanne Collins.**_

* * *

That evening, once the autumn sun begins to melt over the hills, we all gather together for dinner. Beforehand, I clumsily help Peeta prepare what's left of the turkey from last night while he and Johanna carefully craft sweet rolls. As the three of us traipse around the kitchen, I can't help but wish for Johanna's company more often. I understand that her time here is limited, as she belongs in Seven just like Peeta and I belong in Twelve, but for the time being, her aggressively sardonic presence proves to be just what we need.

But once the sky outside our window begins to swell with vibrant rosy tones, the daytime coming to a peaceful close, Gale appears at the front door, accompanied by Plutarch. After I set the table, the five of us convene in Peeta's dining room.

The dress code for tonight is bizarrely eclectic, alluding to the stark contrasts in disposition. Gale has shown up in a white, collared dress shirt and slacks, only outshined by Plutarch in his suit and tie. The two of them prove to be oddly out-of-place, as Johanna sports skin-tight jeans and a leather jacket while I've slipped into the pale pink tunic I wore for my first supper at Peeta's. And of course, Peeta isn't even attempting to embellish his naturally simple semblance. He comes as he always does, with slightly faded khakis and a blue polo that highlights his already charming eyes. All five of us arrive as contradictory entities, all from different places of the country. But we come together, despite our divergences, sharing one meal under a joined roof.

None of us argue tonight; whether that's because we've all experienced enough quarrelling for the day or because we're beginning to grow comfortable together, I am unsure. The air between Gale and I remains somewhat viscous, although the tension has generally diminished since our earlier clash. I come to dinner with no scarf, sporting the love bites that Peeta left along my neck and collar with dignity. Even though the rims are beginning to yellow, they're still exceedingly apparent; I catch Gale gawking at them within the first five minutes of our meal, but he says nothing. I grasp that it will take quite some time for him to grow comfortable in the shadow of my relationship with Peeta, but for now, all I ask of him is to accept it. And he seems to do so with little struggle.

Plutarch effectively massacres whatever peace we'd been developing when, halfway through the dinner, he begins to explain how the next few days will transpire in regards to the propos. He tells us that we'll commence with the filming at nine o'clock in the morning—first, a clip with only me, speaking to Panem as if we're old friends. Then, Peeta will be spotlighted with his bakery in a short excerpt, followed by another transitory clip with Johanna. A longer segment will follow, highlighting the relationship between Peeta and I—how we've grown back together, how we're healing. Then all of us, including Plutarch and Gale, will appear before the world as a unit. To assure Panem that revival is possible, is on the horizon, as we are not alone. Plutarch relays this blueprint of his, announcing that many of these shots will be filmed over the course of the week and will be compiled upon their return to the Capitol and aired on the one-year anniversary of the ending of the war.

On the anniversary of when Prim was killed.

This realization crushes my bones under its weight as I realize that, within a few short weeks, a full year will have elapsed since her death. It seems implausible that the world continued to turn, that life persisted, without her present. That the birds are still singing.

Although no inherent conflict arises for the remainder of the meal, the conversation that follows is relatively spotty and inelegant. I fall into a daze, forgetting I have a plate full of food set before me. It isn't until several long minutes have passed that I notice Peeta is watching me with profuse concern. Underneath the table, I feel his hand slide over my knee. His eyes beg, _What's wrong__?_ My exasperated sigh resolves, _Later._ My tongue feels tied up, my throat thick. I couldn't speak even if I wanted.

When it is time for the guests to head out for the night, I walk Plutarch and Gale to the door, hardly able to even glance at either of them. Plutarch bids us good-bye in a tone as chipper as ever; Gale, contrariwise, remains in the doorway for an extra moment after his mentor has parted.

The muffled sound of Johanna laughing in the kitchen at something Peeta has said comforts me in this otherwise inimical moment, the bitter cold from beyond the open door whipping into the front hall.

"You don't look so great, Katniss."

I shrug, folding my arms over my chest. "I'll be alright."

His grey eyes, raking anxiously over me, seem to believe otherwise, but he doesn't press farther. Gale knows me well enough to recognize when I'll open up and when I'll remain stubbornly inaccessible.

Nevertheless, his large hand finds my shoulder, his thumb rubbing over my collar for just a brief moment before he nods farewell.

And suddenly, he is gone.

I remain in the hallway for quite some time, absolutely still as I bask in the blank void that overcomes my expended mind. Although I weakly beg my feet to move, they stay planted on the floorboards as I let myself wither.

Atypically, my hunter's ears fail me; I don't hear Peeta approaching, but suddenly he is here, with me, surrounding me. His thick biceps wind around my dilapidated form, and I allow myself to unravel in his grasp.

"You were thinking about her, weren't you?" he murmurs gently into my ear. I imagine I should be surprised by his accuracy, but this is _Peeta_, the man who knows me just as intricately as I know myself. He must've watched me wilt away at the mention of the anniversary of the revolution, sanctioning the pieces of the puzzle to link from there.

With his arms securing me to his chest, I find myself crumpling against him, broken sobs muffled against the fabric of his shirt. He doesn't say anything, simply rubbing soothing circles over my back as I cry. Although I've always had an aversion to crying in front of others, as I feel helplessly vulnerable when I do, Peeta promises a sense of security I cannot find elsewhere.

After a long while, Peeta helps me up the stairs and into bed, still enveloped in my tunic. He lays me out over the mattress like a limp doll, boneless and composed of gelatin, pulling the covers up to my chin and kissing my forehead.

"I need to go finish the dishes," he whispers quietly, a stitch of shame weaving into his murmur as he probably feels guilty for leaving me alone. "Johanna won't touch the water, so that pretty much leaves me with the bulk of the work. But I'll be back as soon as I can, love. I promise."

Before I can emit a selfish protest, I am alone, the room darker and colder than usual. I crinkle the comforter up against my jaw, wrapping myself in the blanket in a nearly suffocating fashion. I can't close my eyes, for images of Prim flood the gloom when I do. A year ago, she was still alive, as beautiful and bright as ever.

It feels like hours have elapsed when I finally hear the low purr of hushed whispers beyond my slightly ajar door.

"Are you already going to bed?" Johanna murmurs.

I hear a sigh, the shifting of weight. "She needs me to keep her company."

"You're not tired, though." There seems to be a hint of a question in her voice, soliciting some sort of explanation.

"I'm usually not. But I don't mind staying up and watching over her. She sleeps better when I do."

My frigid toes curl up underneath the several tiers of blankets as I feel a slight warmth simmer in my chest.

"I sincerely hope that girl recognizes how lucky she is to have you, Peg-leg."

_I do. Every day_.

He chuckles breathily. "I don't know, Johanna—I feel like the lucky one. You know, I pined after her for over a decade before—"

"Say no more. I'm already very aware of how pathetic you are," she cackles amusedly, hardly intending to be rude. "You need to get out more, kid."

"I have all I need right here."

She gags. "Oh my _god_. You make me sick."

Once again, he emits a musical chuckle, and the sound of it alone causes my stomach to flip contentedly.

"You can stay up for a while, you know. It's pretty early."

"Nah. I'm spent. I think I might just throw in the towel early again."

The bedroom door creaks slightly as it opens just a crack wider; and then, Peeta's voice rings from the hallway again. "Sleep well, Johanna."

"You too, kid. And grow a pair of balls while you're at it."

I grimace slightly in the dark, folding the blankets over my mouth. The hinges on the door squeal as they swing open, then closed, and the mattress shifts underneath me as it compensates for a second body. With no delay, Peeta is reeling me into his grasp.

"I'm sorry that took so long." His lips are against my temple.

I revolve in his arms so that my chest is pressed to his, my head finding the crook of his neck. "It's alright." And it really is.

"You started to think about her when Plutarch mentioned the anniversary," he murmurs quietly into my hair, begging affirmation.

I nod weakly against his collar.

He continues, correctly assuming I have nothing I wish to say. "I saw the way your eyes dropped when he started talking about it. One moment, you were listening attentively and then just a few seconds later, you were… gone. I tried to catch your attention for about five minutes before you even snapped out of it long enough to glance to me. I wanted—I _should've_ done something, said something to Plutarch, or taken you away from the table—"

His breath hitches in surprise as he feels my lips tenderly embedding in the side of his neck and I feel his fingers raveningly bunch up the fabric of my tunic over my back.

"There was nothing for you to do." My voice, muffled against his heated skin, effectively terminates whatever guilt-driven speech lingers on his tongue. I want him to say no more. After all that has happened today, with Gale, with the memories of Prim… verbal consolation is not what I need. At the end of the day, when all's said and done, I don't need vocal assurances from Peeta nearly as much as I need _him_, holding me, kissing me, making my world melt away.

We remain intertwined underneath the blanket for quite some time, lips moving harmoniously through the quiet dark. By this point, kissing Peeta seems so natural, so pure, like an art form rather than a conventional activity. As he encases me in his steadfast hold, every synchronized breath propels me deeper and deeper into blissful evasion of the burdens that threaten in the daylight hours. I am with him, he is with me—there is no room for grief in between our entangled bodies.

His eager fingers pull at my tunic, bunching it up over my waist, leaving my underwear exposed underneath the sheets. Immediately after he feels my hesitation, he apologizes and begins to pull it back down. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

I interrupt his act of contrition by grasping his wrist and directing them back to the tingling skin over my thighs. "It's okay," I whisper, wide eyes interlocking through the gloom. Even though the light is poor, I can clearly see his face darken as a wild blush rages through his cheeks.

Even though Peeta is certainly innocent, his modesty is no match to mine. I'm the one who sets the pace in this relationship, as I'm sure that Peeta would be willing to do anything if I desired. If I asked him to strip naked for me, I doubt he'd contest.

So when he nudges the boundaries slightly further than what I've already set—like pulling up my tunic, revealing bare thighs and a flat stomach—it slightly shocks me, but the feeling of his satiny skin tracing against mine is not unpleasant.

Therefore, I welcome it.

His fingers run over the angles of my hips, eliciting a pleasured shiver while doing so. We break apart for a moment to cooperatively remove his shirt, leaving thin slivers of my skin to brush with his. When my thighs latch around his hips, he releases a soft, low groan, and I taste my name as he pours it into my mouth.

I swing him onto his back and dip a leg in between his, so I'm partially mounted over his side. He gazes up at me in feverish awe as I begin to trace imaginary patterns over the bare skin of his chest, his solid abdomen. He gasps through parted lips as my fingers find sensitive areas, his eyes rolling back in delectation for a brief moment.

"_God_, Katniss… you're so—so _marvelous_…"

When our lips connect this time, our kisses are slow, deliberate, doting. I drape myself over him, pushing back his blonde curls.

But when a necessary question bubbles to mind, I pull back. "Peeta?"

"Yes?" His eyes are gleaming, promising me everything.

"Thank you."

Peeta grins at me reverently as he toys with the end of my braid that flops over my shoulder, but a slight twinge of pleasant confusion lingers in his smile. "For what?"

"For everything," I whisper back, apprehending that I haven't been as vocally grateful as his selfless affection warrants. "For always being so attentive, and for holding me when I break down, and sacrificing much of what you want so that I can be happy. I don't deserve any of this."

"You deserve the world," he contradicts gently, his palm cupping my cheek.

"I _don't_, Peeta. I'm selfish and stubborn and overly-sensitive. You're my utter counterpart. You're humble, you're forgiving, you're comforting. Hell, you even let me spend half of the day with Gale, and I know how much that must've intimidated you."

He smiles sadly. "It's what you needed, Katniss."

"_Exactly._" My hands fall flat on his chest. "You're always doing what's best for me, and I hardly ever thank you for it."

"You don't have to, love," he murmurs gently, his lips sweeping against my nose. "It's my pleasure."

* * *

I hadn't realized that what Plutarch had meant when he said we'd begin filming at nine o'clock was that we'd be rudely awoken by the chime of the doorbell at six-thirty.

"The sun's not even out yet," I groan, rolling away from Peeta as he sleepily stumbles from the bed. Peeta routinely opens the bakery at eight in the morning—thus, he's always up before seven-thirty to throw together a quick breakfast, but for some reason, this slightly premature awakening seems particularly rude.

Peeta allows me to stay in bed as he tends to the bell. However, my interim minute of peace is ended abruptly as the bedroom door flies open.

"Katniss Everdeen! Wake up, dear!"

I grumble as I flip onto my stomach, greeted by three familiar faces. Flavius, Venia, and Octavia have crowded around my bed, sporting their characteristically outrageous Capitol garb. Even the sight of the hues of their hair is enough to propel me into a wave of nausea.

Peeta surfaces from behind them, gazing down at me with a pungent apology saturated in his blue orbs. He smiles nervously. "You've got visitors."

"I can see that," I flatly respond as I prop myself up on the bed, my mind whirling with haziness.

He parts through the three overly-excited members of my prep team to cup my jaw with warm palms, planting a gentle kiss on the top of my head. Behind him, Venia releases an excited squeal, and a gasp along the lines of "How _cute!_" bubbles to Octavia's orange-tainted lips.

"How about I make you some tea? My prep team—and Johanna's—have yet to arrive."

I assume that the three members of mine have arrived early because they anticipate a heavy work load ahead. And I don't blame them. Although I've been looking healthier lately, with fuller cheeks and softer angles, my hair is wild and disheveled and the love bites on my neck scream for attention.

I accept Peeta's offer and he turns away, leaving me alone with three of the most eccentric people I've ever come to meet.

"Oh, _darling_, we missed you so much!" As I stand from the bed, Flavius pulls me into a tight hug before beginning to fawn over my unruly, tangled braid. "When was the last time you used a hairbrush?"

"It's been about a year." My reply is stale, as the energy needed to convey the intended joke escapes me. It's too early.

"Heaven help us all!" Venia cries, grabbing my hand and dragging me into the bathroom with the remaining two members of the prep team clinging on from behind.

Within minutes, they've dumped me into the bathtub and begin scrubbing away. Octavia seems absolutely horrified by the state of my nails, ragged and lined with dirt; Venia is flabbergasted by the bruises on my neck, which I defend with nothing more than half-choked giggles. Nevertheless, all three of them are heedlessly chipper. Even though their shallowness has always been irritating, there's something bizarrely pleasant about their presence. I'm sure that if it had been later in the morning, I would be able to at least display some of that anomalous gratification.

As Flavius scrubs a dollop of gooey serum into my scalp, I notice how his eyes are glimmering with excitement. "You may be a mess, but you are looking so much healthier than during the rebellion."

This proves to be one of the most insightful comments I've heard from any of them.

"Thank you," I gurgle as he pours water over me. I want to point out that I don't need to be bathed—I am eighteen years old and can be trusted not to drown by myself—but I'm aware that any efforts to resist will be futile. When it comes to beauty and hygiene, these three are fearless and obdurate. "I've been eating well and getting more rest."

"Well, obviously, that beauty sleep has done _wonders_ for you!" Venia exclaims. "And I'm sure that having a baker as a housemate can't hurt, either."

This comment makes Flavius jump enthusiastically. "The _baker_!"

"Tell us about Peeta!" Octavia manages to take a break from my helplessly imperfect nails to stare me down, excitement twinkling in her naïve gaze.

I roll my eyes. "What is there to tell?"

"Oh, _everything_!"

"Like, how long have you been staying at his house?"

"What's it like having him bake for you all the time? Honey, I have no idea how you haven't put on more weight! He must stuff you silly!"

"Are you thinking about children yet?"

_Apparently, there's quite a lot to tell._

I silence them with a piercing chuckle that even _I_ hadn't anticipated croaking from my own throat. "Calm down!"

"Honey, we just want to _know_," Flavius oozes. "I mean, we've been rooting for you two since day one. All of us have. All of _Panem_."

Octavia sighs dreamily. "It's so wonderful seeing the star-crossed lovers still in love."

I assume that the three of them are relatively oblivious to the circumstances surrounding me and Peeta's relationship. Despite the fact that they'd experienced the cruelty and the volatility of the rebellion firsthand, I doubt they could grasp the depths of the struggles that Peeta and I routinely face. To them, the world is fairly simple. Things are bad, or things are good. They are happy, they are sad. But they don't understand loss in the same way as Peeta and I, even though they've lost many of their friends. The pain they are familiar with hardly goes beyond physical discomfort. They don't understand multifaceted anguish, rooted in the depths of the soul, where it still threatens to grow even on sunny days.

"It hasn't been easy," I begin to explain honestly, although I suspect that justifications as complex as the ones I intend won't settle well with their rudimentary understanding of the world. "We're both very hurt. I have a lot of nightmares, and Peeta still suffers from episodes, but we make do with what we can. I'm sure we'd both be devastated without each other. He makes me happy."

_Straightforward enough._

Venia pulls the plug in the tub to drain the water, and Octavia helps Flavius pull me out to encase me in towels. And then they set me in a chair that they've wheeled in, immediately diving to work on every inch of my unprocessed skin.

"You deserve to be happy, dear," Octavia bubbles. "And he does, too. You're both such sweet kids!"

I snort at her misperception of me being "sweet," but I don't contest.

Flavius scrunches up my soggy hair into a towel before yanking a brush through it. "Panem is going to go _wild_ when they see the two of you together!"

Even though I grin weakly at him, I feel my heart pang as I disagree. Although I'm sure that many people may be relieved to know that, through thick and thin, even those who are the most broken can still find a true home in each other, I don't want to rub my relative happiness in anyone's faces. The focus of the propos should _not_ be on me and Peeta's union. It should be on how we're healing, how we have hope, how we have life.

As I'm wrapped in nothing but a thin towel while my prep team works their magic on my raw silhouette, a gentle rapping echoes from the bathroom door.

"Hey, Katniss, can I come in?"

The sound of his voice unravels my tensed muscles. Venia giggles as she takes a cold pair of tweezers to my brow. "Speak of the devil."

"What's the password?" I pipe at him.

There's a brief moment of hesitation before his muffled verbalization carries back over to me.

"I-brought-you-some-mint-tea-that-I-slaved-over-so-let-me-in?"

Flavius laughs as he gently rakes through a knot in my tresses.

"Close enough," I toss back. Although I can't turn my head for fear of having my hair yanked right from the roots, through my peripheral vision I see the door tweak open, and in walks an amused Peeta, grasping a mug of steaming tea. Once he sees me nearly naked, however, his resolve fleetingly falters and I watch as his all-too-familiar blush blossoms in his cheeks.

I almost expect him to fumble with a clumsy apology as he typically does when he catches me indecent, but this time, he says nothing. Instead, he gently places the mug on the counter in front of me so that when I'm free from the relentless grasps of my three minions, it's within reach.

"Johanna's new prep team came a few minutes ago," he updates, standing in the doorway with his arms folded over his chest. "Mine have yet to show. Although, at this point, I'd rather go in front of the camera half-covered in flour than groomed and manicured to exhaustion."

"I believe that you have Nadia and Calico," Venia tells Peeta, tweezers pinched tightly in between two thin fingers. "And if that's the case, you will be glamorized beyond your wildest dreams."

Peeta chuckles. "Oh, joy."

In my opinion, Peeta needs little-to-no prepping. He's immaculately charismatic as is; if he _did_ appear before Panem in a stained t-shirt and khakis, flour caked to his cheek and sprinkled in his hair, I'm sure he'd still be more charming than a fully embellished Girl on Fire.

"Not to mention, your new stylist will be sure to make you three look absolutely stunning."

I feel my throat parch, my breath hitching somewhere in my lungs. To my side, Peeta's gaze plummets to the floor. And, while they're far from the most intelligent of folk, my prep team is certainly not stupid—in all actuality, they're quite observant. So when Peeta and I deteriorate slightly as the three of them comb their manicured hands over me, they notice.

Octavia is the first to pull back.

"What's wrong?"

My gaze flickers to Peeta as his meets mine; I see it in his eyes just as clearly as I feel it in my chest. Whoever this new stylist is will be no Cinna. And for Peeta, no Portia. To a certain degree, it's unfair to immediately put little faith into them before we even assemble, as he or she has impossibly high standards to live up to. But neither Peeta, nor I, can evade our doubts.

"Why can't we just wear Cinna's outfits?" I'm sure there's plenty left…

Venia shrugs. "I don't know. But I promise, you'll _love_ her. She's an absolute _doll_."

Just as I feel the lump in my throat beginning to swell, the chime from the doorbell rings through the house and Peeta plants a quick kiss on my cheek before tending to it. I sigh heavily as he goes, craving for him to return. In this vast, empty world, Peeta seems to be the only one to provide heedless solace whenever he's at my side.

My prep team continues to toss around shallow chatter amongst themselves, occasionally questioning me about Peeta or Twelve or other random topics. As they cease their work over me, my mind has plunged into a thick fog. I can hardly think.

Once they're finishing polishing me off, leaving me as a clean slate for the stylist to transform, they direct me to the bakery. Apparently, that is where Plutarch and Gale will be waiting with whoever this new designer comes to be. I thank them for their help, whether I sincerely wanted their service or not, and I find myself being pulled in all directions into passionate hugs.

When I traipse down to the kitchen, clasping the mug tightly in my hands, I find that both Peeta and Johanna are nowhere to be found. I assume they're being brutally groomed by their own prep teams at the moment, and instead of venturing to find them, I set my cup on the dining room table and skip through the front door.

The walk to town is far more pleasant than many have been recently; even though it's merely mid-autumn, we've experienced several weeks of aberrant cold. But on this morning, the sun is unobstructed and demonstrative, nothing more than a gentle breeze whipping through the open air.

When I arrive at the market, I come across Greasy Sae, who begins to chuckle at the sight of me. As I rove through town, scrubbed from head-to-toe yet still swallowed by an oversized t-shirt of Peeta's and pajama pants, I imagine I look like a walking paradox.

The door to the bakery is unlocked, as Rory has already arrived and begun to run the ovens; the fresh scent of rising dough swirls about the lobby as I push my way through the entrance.

Immediately, I'm greeted by three convivial grins, only two of which I'm familiarized with.

"Good morning, Catnip," Gale says much more generously than the preceding day. Plutarch steps forward with a light greeting before motioning to the third individual.

"Katniss, this is Alta," he tells me. "She's your stylist."

My lips are hesitant to fashion a smile even though hers is bright and welcoming. She extends a hand for me to take, and I do so tentatively; her thin, elegant fingers wrap around mine in a lyrical fashion.

"It's wonderful to meet you, Katniss," she enunciates, her intonation glossy and melodic. Everything about the woman that stands before me is sophisticated yet edgy; her snowy blonde hair is pulled into a tight ponytail, cascading down her back in a straight stream, matching her fair skin. She wears black and electric blue hues, the material shiny and clinging to her thin figure. And even though she sports sleek cat-eye lines of eyeliner, her face is otherwise clear of makeup. Despite emanating an overall avant-garde quality, she does not look _nearly_ as ridiculous as many do when emerging from the Capitol.

Still, she is no Cinna. Even though her grin is genuine, her principal manner cordial, she has shoes that I'm afraid are too big to fill.

As my hand pulses on hers, I reply as affably as I can manage, "It's nice to meet you, too."

She lets go of my palm and her eyes flicker to Plutarch. "Would you mind giving us a few moments?" she requests gently.

Despite his surprise, Plutarch agrees, and he and Gale push their way through the front door of the shop. Apart from Rory in the back room, it is now just me and the foreign woman, the scent of fresh breath ribboning around our bodies.

And even though we are alone, her geniality does not ebb. We stand a few feet apart for several moments, immersed in a thick silence as her smile smolders, before I break away from her gaze and head toward the counter to grab a pastry. My stomach is grumbling.

When I lift the lid from a small plate with apple tartlets lining the ceramic rim, she clears her throat and startles me with resolved brusqueness.

"Katniss, I know how much you admired Cinna. And I understand that I won't be able to live up to his legacy."

My muscles freeze for a moment, my motions coming to an abrupt halt. How she'd known what was running through my mind is beyond me.

"I want you to know that I'm not trying to outdo him. I know that I can't. During the war, by starring in those propos, you gave me and my brother so much… so much _hope_. I don't think you understand the effect that you had on my family. And I want to be able to depict you just as inspiringly as Cinna did, but in a different way."

"Is that why I'm not going to be wearing one of his dresses?" I'm now turned to face her, my palms embedding into the solid counter behind me.

Her smile is sad as she nods. "They really are beautiful, Katniss. I'm sorry I couldn't put you in one."

I inhale, on the threshold of hissing back, _but why?_ However, she resolves my question before I can spit it out.

"The outfits that he designed are incredible. They're edgy, they're striking, and they're bold. They mold you into this beautifully frightening mockingjay. But the war is over now, and the people of Panem don't need edge. They need comfort. Maybe the time to show off his creations will come again, but for now, you don't need to be flashy. Correct me if I'm wrong."

While she speaks, a hulking lump rises in my throat, as I realize that her interpretation is unmitigated in its accuracy.

"You're right, Alta," I admit quietly. "You're absolutely right."

The corners of her mouth tweak even further outward as she beams widely my way.

"And I understand if it takes you some time to warm up to me. Just try and be patient as I make you over. I promise, no heavy cosmetics, no bulky dresses. The most important part of your look will be your smile."

As she says that, I feel a grin play at my lips, only supporting her proposal.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to take you back to the hovercraft to get you dressed and primed for the propaganda clips. I think your prep team is waiting there, anyway."

I wordlessly agree and allow her to lead me out of the bakery. We walk adjacently on our venture to the field; I espouse relative silence while Alta chatters away at my side. She tells me she's from District 8, which specializes in the production of textiles. She was raised with her brother by only her father, who was a factory worker, after their mother died when she was eight. Her eyes glimmer whenever she speaks of her brother, who is six years younger than she—I imagine that he must be to her what Prim had been to me. I choke a little at the thought of her, at the thought of how it's almost been a full year without her.

When we arrive at the hovercraft, she escorts me up the ramp. My bones feel chilled as I emerge into the central cavity of the vessel, filled with frantic crew members as they scurry to prepare for the upcoming propos. Although I merit a few startled glances from some, for the most part, they ignore me, which is oddly comforting.

Alta channels me to a small room, flooded with pallid artificial lighting, where I am greeted once again by an overly-zealous Flavius, Venia, and Octavia. She manages to hold my prep team off for just long enough to grab my new outfit and squeeze me into it. But soon enough, like vultures orbiting around a dying animal, my prep team swoops in the moment she's backed away to add the finishing touches. Octavia carefully streaks silver paint over the tips of my nails in swirls (although I can't imagine any viewer will be able to notice the intricate detail of the manicure) while Venia sweeps a thin layer of powder over my face. She does little more with my makeup, only blotching a shimmering nude eye shadow over my lids, filling the outer crease with a warm brown tone for definition. Flavius works fervently on my hair, twisting it around a metal wand to fashion gentle, loose curls that spill over my shoulders.

And when their work is done, my team steps to the side while Alta assists me to my feet, leading me to a full-length mirror in the corner of the room.

"I wanted you to look natural," she begins to explain almost guiltily, automatically assuming I'm displeased. "So that you're relatable, and gentle, and—"

"I like it," I interrupt her, my voice soft as my eyes rake over my reflection.

She looks to me in euphoric shock. "You do?"

I nod with no hesitation. Even though Cinna still reigns supreme, Alta does not disappoint.

As I settle before the mirror, I'm astonished by the girl—the _woman_—that ascends from behind the other side of the glass. She sports olive green jeans, tight but flattering, with brown boots much like the ones I wear when I hunt laced up mid-calf. Her shirt is short-sleeved and made of satin, hugging her ribs to a seam that girdles her natural waist where it gently flares out.

She looks absolutely beautiful in her elegant maturity. Her attractiveness is not sharp and unconventional like it always had been under Cinna's instruction. This girl that stands opposite me, in conjunction with evincing ordinariness, demonstrates a genuine air of solicitude and graceful strength. She looks _healthy_.

"I love it," I reassure.

And I do.

Because, for the first time, I no longer feel forced to play the role I've been pinned to for over a year. The girl that rises from the other side of the mirror is not the mockingjay. She is not a symbol of rebellion, of unrest, of drastic change.

Alta has made me into a symbol far different. She has transformed me into an emblem of peace, of prosperity, and most of all, of hope.

I am a dove.


	20. Reducing to Ash

_Sorry for the wait, lovelies! This week has been so stressful, and on top of that, my map for this chapter included a LOT of plot movement. I think this is the longest chapter yet and is essentially a giant roller coaster of emotions, so I apologize in advance for the whiplash you're all about to get._

_I wanted to issue a special thanks to the especially kind reviews this past chapter. I got so much positive feedback with my whole "dove" inclusion—I wasn't expecting such an enthusiastic response!_

_Really quickly, I wanted to mention that I noticed some irregularities in the stats for who viewed the last few chapters—I had over 100 more people read chapter 19 than 18. Which means that about 100 people missed a chapter. This website has been a little funky lately and, like before, I'm afraid that maybe some of my followers didn't receive notifications. So, if you've been a little concerned with continuity, maybe that's an explanation!_

_Well, regardless of that fact, I hope that you enjoy this chapter. Carry on. :) _

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**_

* * *

When I arrive at the bakery again, where Plutarch, Gale, and several cameramen have begun to set up shop (ignorantly assuming that Peeta's bakery can do without one day of business, apparently), the entirety of the crowd stops still upon me pushing through the front doors.

"Did you ask Peeta if you could take over his bakery?" is the first order I inquire on, my tone more hostile than projected.

Plutarch's brow furrows as he speaks indolently. "Yes, we did. At dinner last night."

I feel my face reddening under the slight film of blush that Venia coated over the apples of my cheeks. _They must've discussed this after I'd zoned out._

"His only request was that we allow Rory to finish up the orders for today," Gale interjects. "Other than that, he gave us permission to close the lobby for filming."

As my eyes dart to Gale, I see a slight smile break out over his lips. This grin, unlike many of the ones I've seen since his arrival, rings much more similar to the way he used to smile before the war had bungled it.

"You look good, Catnip."

I briefly thank him, not wholly uncomfortable with the compliment. I just wish, internally, secretly, that it had come from Peeta instead of Gale. Always having despised the limelight, I've never been endowed with the ability to properly accept compliments. Only with Peeta can flattery be borne with only a ghost of a blush in my cheeks to remonstrate. This is what we've become. This is _how_ I've become with him, the boy with the bread, the only soul on this earth that seems to tame my monsters and scare them away at nights. That, with the snap of his fingers, leave the walls around me to crumble into mounds of ash.

Before anything else can be said, with the thought of him trickling through my reeling mind, my head cranes as it surveys the bakery. "Where's Peeta?"

My enquiry bows Gale's smile into a grimace. For him, I suppose my newfound need for Peeta will take some getting accustomed to.

"Alta is prepping him and Johanna. We won't need their presence until after you've finished with your first interview." This time, it is Plutarch to respond. "We'll film you speaking in different locations until we believe we've captured the best possible shot. We may need to keep filming tomorrow. Ultimately, we have the whole week to perfect this series of propos."

I groan lowly at the thought of partaking in this laborious ritual of waking early for the remainder of the week, only to be scrubbed from head-to-toe and dressed up like a doll.

"Will it be just the same speech over and over?"

This is where Plutarch smiles. "Originally, I wrote you a speech. But… during the rebellion, you seemed to generate pretty decent one-liners on your own anyway. As of yet, I want you to speak from your heart—but if today is a disaster, Gale and I can go to work on one for tomorrow."

I can hardly imagine what use Gale would be in writing an oration. I'd assumed that his primary contribution to the campaigns had been the pretty face.

"When should we start?"

Plutarch's grin arches more effusively.

"How about now?"

* * *

In the center of the market, a large fountain has been erected. It stands almost ten feet tall, constructed of polished stone; and on warm days much like today, jets of water cascade down the sides. Although it is headed by no revolutionary symbol, to those who are old enough to understand its implications, the fountain itself is an emblem of opulence that has never been found in Twelve before. To those who are too young to understand, it proves to be a lovely playground—typically, whenever I make my way through town, I find several children splashing around in its waters.

It was one of the first extravagant structures built in Twelve. The first shops in the market came after the fountain was raised, and in a way, the fountain is the heart of the district.

So it's only fitting to attempt the first propaganda clip there.

As the cameras set up around the monument, Plutarch positions me at the foot of the fountain. Flavius, Venia, and Octavia are present, fiddling with me and touching me up just enough so that once the camera starts rolling I at least _look_ absolutely flawless. A part of me wishes they hadn't cloaked the circles under my eyes, or the scars on my neck, or _any_ characteristic that showed authenticity. Although I look as if I'm cured, I'm not. I may be healing, but I still have my cracks—I hope the people of Panem will be able to see this through my speech and be able unearth some comfort, knowing that it's alright for them to have cracks, too. Because they are not alone.

Although, in this moment, my hands feel colder than usual, my palms aching for their other half. My throat is dry as I stand before the mounting cameras, my waist craving an arm to wind around it. I'm certain this entire process would seem far less daunting if I had Peeta to help me through it. I calm myself with the promise that he'll be here soon enough.

If only the boy knew how much I needed him. I can imagine that smug, delighted grin sweep across his face upon realizing that he's become my anchor. He's metamorphosed into my only true source of enduring comfort over the past several months—at the end of the day, even the unbending, sovereign Katniss Everdeen still needs an affectionate set of arms to return to.

She needs those affectionate set of arms now, too.

But for now, I am alone, standing in front of a camera crew, being ruffled and dabbed in preparation for the whole country to see.

Suddenly, before I know exactly what is happening, Plutarch is telling me a few final words of advice and then the cameraman, positioned behind the large black contraption, is counting down on his fingers.

My blood pulses violently through my veins as I gulp.

"Five."

_I can't do this._

"Four."

_What exactly am I supposed to say?_

"Three."

_What if they don't like me? What if they think that I'm fake and pretentious?_

"Two."

_Oh, god. Why can't Peeta be here with me…_

"One."

I swallow as the red light of the camera begins to flicker, piercing into me like a laser. My throat is desiccated, cracked and thick. I feel the air building in my windpipe as I inhale. And then, I let my voice pour from my lips, and surprisingly, it's far more clear and confident than I ever could've anticipated.

_Here we go._

"My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am from District 12. Many of you may recognize me as the tribute who won the 74th Hunger Games. Many of you may recognize me as the Girl on Fire, or the Mockingjay. As the girl who helped lead the rebellion. As the girl who defeated Snow. But I want to tell you something: Even though I may be all of those things, I am as human as every other citizen of Panem—no different than you. You and I share a common denominator in the sense that we have survived through the brutal oppression of Snow's regime, we have survived the war, and now we are here. In this new country built on the same soil as the old. I have survived, just as you have."

A crowd of pedestrians has begun to collect behind the camera crew, suspending their morning routines at the market to watch as I speak before the foreboding lens and flashing red light. I gulp down another surge of fear and continue.

"And, just as many of you have, I've come to learn that survival is not as glamorous as predicted. I doubt that I am alone in event that I believed life would improve drastically after the war had concluded. In some respects, I suppose it did. The children of the districts no longer have to fear being reaped, and their parents no longer have to suffer countless, sleepless nights of dreading the possibility of their children being taken away from them. Most can go to sleep with full stomachs and with a guarantee of food on the table when we wake. And we have a government that may be young, but regardless, is doing all it can to better the lives of its people. We have control. Those are things that many had to live without before. But in some respects—I fear, in too _many_ ways—the aftermath of the rebellion proved to be far less impressive than anticipated. Much of the pain from before the war still exists today—some of it is a pain considerably different than the ache before. Many of us are terrorized by nightmares, many have had to rebuild homes and shops. And, worst of all, many have lost those in their lives who were most important to them. I lost my sister, Prim, who was my entire world." My voice cracks around her name, giving away my collapsing resolve. But I won't let myself cry. Not now.

I take a deep breath and continue. "And so, if you have experienced this type of pain that is miles under the surface, that is tough and prevailing despite even the fleeting, most blissful of circumstances, I want you to know that you are not alone. The sting of losing something or someone is not something that is meant to be endured by the solitary."

Before me, the accumulating masses begin to shift. My eyes focus on the front of the line where a body breaks through the rest. And instantly, once he steps further, I feel a kindling warmth ignite in the pit of my stomach. My eyes lock with those familiar blue orbs that I've memorized in every fleck of color, his steadfast smile eliciting a slight one from my lips. Now, he bears a white collared shirt underneath a cerulean jacket, which only highlights his eyes even more effectively than usual, stealing the breath straight from my constricting lungs. I can't help but notice how striking he looks with his styled curls and tender grin, sporting as abysmal of an affection as ever.

His timing couldn't be more perfect.

"And so," I continue, my chin lifting with a sudden burst of confidence. "In this seemingly endless stretch of time, I discovered that one of the most effective methods of finding a way to heal has been turning to someone who not only understands my pain, but can help mend some of my wounds. This boy—this _man_—has reminded me that it's _okay_ to be hurt, it's _okay_ to break down and that I should not be ashamed of my nightmares or my fears. Because, even though I emerged from the Hunger Games with my life, even though I am the Girl on Fire, and I am the Mockingjay… I am human. And especially after trials like the ones that we, as citizens of Panem, have faced, being human means that we are fragile. That's only natural. But, even though we may be hurt, we are not helpless. Because we are not alone." I grin even wider, my eyes delving even further into those blue irises. "Peeta, can you come here?"

Through my peripheral vision, I take in both Gale and Plutarch's facials, morphed in shock at my slightly unorthodox strategy. But I could care less. If they hate it so much, we can always film a second clip. After all, we have days.

For now, though, I want Peeta at my side, only reinforcing what I'm promising the people of Panem.

I watch as he strides forward, slipping into the window of the camera, his arm coiling around my waist as he skates to my side. His lips find my temple briefly before he pulls back and waves charismatically to the lens; yet, even this transitory action is enough to draw a blush from my cheeks.

"Peeta Mellark has been everything to me this past year, and that can be accredited to one simple fact: he donates me the promise of hope. We are both exceedingly damaged from what we've been forced to endure, but we do not let that define us. We define ourselves by the measures we take to improve—and even though the process is certainly not easy, as the climb is a quite steep battle to fight, we help each other through it. Regardless of the notion that both of us have lost nearly everything in the war, we've managed to find the one remaining glimmer of hope left, and that is in each other. Peeta is my… well, he's my dandelion in the spring." I feel his eyes on me as I train my focus on the camera, but nevertheless, I know he's smiling down at me, gaze glimmering heedlessly. "Even after a harsh winter has massacred every sign of life, a dandelion will bloom again come springtime. Peeta is my dandelion—he is the boy that will keep building me up every time I come crumbling down. In this shadow of the war, which may seem crushing under its weight, all that is needed is your dandelion. You've survived: now, it's time to find a way to actually _live_."

I feel Peeta's fingers delicately brushing a wisp of hair behind my ear as he kisses my cheek again. Even though my face burns at the public display of affection, the act seems so natural, as it comes from the boy that holds my heart in his big, calloused palms.

"Even though the road ahead is daunting, it's not as dark as it may seem. As long as you have your dandelion—as long as you have your hope—the world is yours for the taking. We may have lost so much, but our stories do not end there. Most of us do not have to fight every day for survival like many did before the rebellion. We have food, we have water, and most of all, we have our freedom." _This one's for you, Plutarch._ "The new government, under President Paylor, promises us something that few have known. We are promised liberty and equality and the chance at life without constant fear. We are promised the opportunity for hope; now, it is up to us to grasp it for our own. Things can only improve from here, as we have our freedom, and we have each other. As long as we are given the precious gift of friends, of communities… of dandelions… we are inexorable. People of Panem, I promise you one thing: your futures are bright. Ultimately, the war marked the end of an era, not the end of our lives. It is time to turn the page to our new chapter. This is only our beginning."

A brief second of silence wafts through the district as I feel the crowd's eyes on me, mouths hung open in suspense, eyes wide. And suddenly, applause is ringing from their hands, the camera has shut off and Peeta has enveloped me in his thick arms and lifted my feet from the ground. He whispers that he loves me, his voice smooth like honey, lacing around me and melting the world that surrounds the two of us to butter.

I want to tell him that I love him, too, but I don't know how.

Suddenly, Plutarch and Gale are at our sides. Gale's grin is far less exuberant than Plutarch's, bearing a discouraging semblance to those numerous shallow smiles that he gave me upon return.

With Peeta's arms still wrapped around my waist, I crane my neck to engage Plutarch.

"How do you think that was?"

A satisfied sigh escapes him.

"I think that's our clip."

Gale's eyes widen as he face contorts, jolting to look at his mentor. "But she barely mentioned anything about the Capitol."

_Had we really reduced back to this?_

"She had a few comments about the government and I believe she told Panem exactly what it needs to hear." After staring Gale down, concluding from his bowed scowl that he was more bitter about Peeta's presence in the clip than my failure to expand upon my support of the government, Plutarch chuckles and pats him on the shoulder. "And I think the boy was a nice touch. A little risky, maybe, but he didn't even say a word. He was more of a visual aid than anything."

When I look to Peeta, he doesn't appear to be the least bit offended. Instead, his gaze has enshrouded me, his smile gleaming. It's almost as if he still hasn't recognized that there are other souls in the world besides him and I.

"Katniss," Plutarch bids, causing both me and Peeta's gazes to break. "If you're comfortable with what we just filmed, I think we can be done."

"That seemed so easy," I laugh breathlessly. "But easy is good."

By this point, the crowd has dispersed and the camera crews, with Plutarch's signal, begin to pack up. Gale steps back, directing his face away from us, letting it wash in the cool breeze. I know that he's moderately displeased. But whatever grudge that motivates him isn't as multi-layered as many of the others have been. After blowing off a little steam, he should salvage back his contentment soon enough.

Peeta and I trek back to the bakery while Plutarch, Gale, and the camera crews venture to the meadow where their hovercraft remains stationed. Apparently, Johanna is being touched up by Alta and her prep team and is expected to be ready to film within the hour. So, now, Peeta and I have merited a little break in the action.

"Have you had anything to eat yet?" he asks me as we push through the front doors of the bakery. Apart from the muffled sounds of Rory working the ovens in the back, the shop is utterly vacated. A few residual technological contraptions left behind from the camera crews prove to be the only element out-of-place; otherwise, it almost feels as if, for a brief moment, things are back to normal. In principle, "normal" is relative—but in this instant, regardless of how fleeting we know it will come to be, it is just us two, dictated by no one but ourselves.

And there is something so gratifyingly peaceful in that.

"All I've had was the tea this morning."

"Which you left most of on the counter," he chuckles, slipping behind the counter to grab one of the leftover pastries from the previous night. His arm outstretches, offering me the tart in his hands.

I take it. "Always looking out for me."

"But of course." Peeta has now glided up to me, his arms weaving around my torso naturally as his lips find my forehead. He trails kisses down my temple, across my cheek, over my jaw until he gently takes my earlobe in his mouth and suckles lightly, eliciting a stifled squeal from somewhere in my throat. Before I can reprimand him, his breath envelops my ear, drawing goose bumps all over my skin as he whispers, "You did wonderfully today."

"You weren't even there for half of it."

"No." He cracks a smile as he draws back. "But what I was there for… Katniss, you said all the right things. I was really impressed."

When I raise an eyebrow, he chuckles again. I can't imagine what has put him in such an idyllic temperament today, but nevertheless, his joviality begins to rub off on me.

"Then again, I'm always impressed with you," he continues. "You could've grumbled on about maiming animals for half an hour and I would still be as enamored as ever."

My gaze gets lost in his as he lifts his palm, gently sweeping a finger across my cheek.

"I don't think I told you yet, but you look absolutely beautiful today. Evidently, you _always_ look beautiful, even after you wake up with extreme bedhead and drool on your cheek—"

I playfully smack his shoulder. "Say no more, Loverboy." As he chuckles, I straighten up in his arms. "And you look very handsome, too. Blue is really a wonderful color on you."

"That's what Alta was saying." Then his breath catches in his throat. "What do you think of her?"

_She's no Cinna_, I hunger to mention, but I hold my tongue. The exceptionally sharp Peeta, without a doubt, is painfully aware of that outlook.

"I think she's nice," I tell him honestly, a slight element of hesitation looming behind my teeth. "As far as Capitol stylists go, she's very down-to-earth. Well, technically, she's not even from the Capitol… I think that helps relate a little more. She understands what we're going through and what Panem needs to gain from these propos. I… I like her, I think."

"I do, too." His lids flicker shut as I run my fingers through his styled curls. "She kept on asking me what I thought about you. At first, I was a little skeptical, but then I realized… she was just trying to portray me accurately. Instead of throwing me in a suit, she made an effort at getting a good grip on my personality so she could tailor me accordingly. I really respect her."

I let myself sink into his chest, ear pressing against the fabric of his shirt until the heartbeat underneath is audible. My mind tumbles out of control, and before I know exactly what I'm saying, I hear my voice soak into his jacket.

"I miss Cinna."

He sighs much more deeply than usual, his lips pressing into my hair. "I know, love."

And he does. Even though Peeta never grew close to Cinna as I had, he'd bonded with Portia—and, like me, he'd watched her die. He was forced to stand by, helpless, and observe as she was brutally murdered by the Capitol alongside his prep team. Although it was with a different stylist, Peeta's grown familiar with this same sentiment of loss that I've come to suffer alongside him.

He says no more on the subject, comforting me by tenderly palming circles over my back. And, I suppose, that is all that is needed.

After quite some time, I feel his lips graze against the cartilage of my ear again.

"Do you want to take a walk before the cameras get back? It's beautiful outside today."

I nod minutely. "Sure."

"And how about I pack a few sandwiches? We can go out for a little picnic…"

His blue irises twinkle like constellations of their own at his suggestion. For a moment, I allow myself to disregard the ongoing situation—the obligations, the demands, the tensions. Over the past several days, I feel as if I've been slighted from some compulsory Peeta time, and now I crave to gain it back.

My grin, this time, is genuinely authentic as I beam jubilantly up at him.

"I would love that."

* * *

When Peeta and I return to the bakery, we're immediately greeted by a frantic camera crew running around like headless chickens. Gale flies out of nowhere and suddenly I'm in his arms, suffocated by his unyielding grasp. Part of the reason I choke for air is because he had scared the life out of me by his sudden grip. The other part of the reason is that Peeta is still solid beside me, holding my hand; Gale crushes me as if he's not there.

"Gale," I cough out, my voice dampened by his shirt.

"You're alright," he sighs, bizarrely relieved, as if he'd thought I was dead.

The moment his clutch on me slackens, I stagger back away from him, Peeta inhibiting my fall with his robust arms. "Of course I'm alight." My hiss is acerbic, incensed. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Gale's silver eyes saturate with shock as Peeta brackets my body in his arms, at his side. _So protective._ A warmth simmers in my chest at Peeta's possessive exploit, whether it was intentional or not.

Before us, Gale begins to fumble for words, his hands stirring in defensive motions. "We just… we came here… and we didn't—didn't know where you _were_…"

"We were gone for _two hours._"

Behind him, somewhere, in the nucleus of the mob of frazzled crewmen, a wily chuckle pierces through the bakery. "I told you, they were probably just getting it on somewhere."

Johanna emerges from the horde, wide-set brown eyes glimmering with her characteristically devious enthusiasm.

"Why didn't you tell anyone where you were going?" This time, Gale's booming timbre dribbles with a tone much more defensive, more armored than before.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize I needed your permission every time I wanted to go out on a little walk."

Without warning, Plutarch emerges from the herd and lays a hand on Gale's shoulder. Only this gesture, while outwardly, it appears sedative, is stiffened and forceful as he pulls the man backward.

"It's nice to see you two back," he imparts as his eyes comb over both me and Peeta. Despite the disapproval emanating from his pinched expression, he says nothing—after all, Plutarch has always been the type to avoid conflict if viable. "We finished filming Johanna's cut, and we'd like to start with Peeta's."

Peeta straightens up at my side, but his arms do not disentangle from my waist. "Alright."

Plutarch orders the camera crews to clear from the bakery; they file out to the main street that traverses the market, leaving the shop open for filming. Within the minute, Peeta is ripped away from me at the hands of his new prep team as they reconfigure him, carefully touching up his hair which has been slightly disheveled from our long promenade through the woods. He looks to me with guilt-ridden eyes, smile apologetic.

And suddenly, I'm being pulled backwards by thin fingers. My head whips around to align with Johanna's.

"What are you doing?"

"You need to talk to Gale."

I grunt. "Trust me, that's the last thing I want to do right now."

She shoves me around the side of the bakery where I spot Gale propped up against the wall, shoulders collapsed, neck bowed in shame. I stagger before him as her grip on me releases. His grey irises brace with mine, but his lips remain clenched together, jaw stony. Neither of us speak at first.

"Well, I really don't want to stand here and babysit you two forever, so it would be in your best interest to start talking or I'm going to get _very_ impatient."

Why does it matter to Johanna whether or not Gale and I converse?

As if she can read my mind, she gripes, "This is so stupid. You're my friends, and _you're_ supposed to be friends, and I'm sick of having to put up with this goddamn tension every time you two are in the same room."

"We already talked yesterday," I grudge.

"Clearly, very little got accomplished." She motions to the gaping space in between our rigid figures.

Gale pushes off the wall and begins to trudge away from me. "I have to be there when they shoot the propo. I don't have time for this sh—"

Despite her pixie-like figure, Johanna never fails to surprise me with her commanding might. Her fist balls up against Gale's chest as she shoves him backwards.

"Gale, you would rather gouge your eyes out than watch Peeta charm Panem with his everlasting charisma." Her tongue rolls around each word, provoking another grimace from him. "Seriously. You two need to figure something out."

And with no other directive, Johanna revolves and bounces off toward the front of the bakery.

Gale's eyes are hesitant to meet mine; I study his expression as he analyzes the space between him and the street ahead, as if he's formulating his escape.

I roll my eyes and resolve to acquiesce.

"Johanna's right. This _is_ stupid."

He says nothing, only persisting to disregard my glare.

"Have we _really_ reduced to this?"

The dirt underneath his shoe kicks up as he digs his toe into the ground. "I don't know what you want me to do, Katniss."

"I could say the exact same thing to you." My lids narrow, my chest throbbing. I am deemed powerless, insignificant, as if I'm trying to convince a wall of stone to move. This is impossible. "I feel like everything I do is wrong by you—well, as long as it involves Peeta."

He snorts but says no more.

By the manner of which he avoids my eyes, how his arms have folded stiffly over his expanded chest… I realize my actions are hopeless. I can't satisfy Gale the way he desires.

He's a lost cause.

"This is pointless, isn't it?" I choke out, my throat thickening. "Everything you said yesterday, about trying to get used to me and Peeta being together… you lied, didn't you? You're not going to get used to it. You don't _want_ us to be friends, not with Peeta in the mixture." I wish he hadn't promised the prospect of hope yesterday, during our discussion out in the woods. That he hadn't led me on.

His hand wipes wearily over his brow. "I just… I couldn't sleep last night, Katniss. Not one minute. I kept tossing and turning in that empty house, and I was walking in and out of the rooms that used to belong to you, and Prim, and…" He claws agitatedly at his own temples. "It's one thing knowing that you two are together, but it's a hell of a lot worse sleeping in the bed that you used to sleep in, knowing that you're in his, doing god knows what—"

"It's not like that, Gale!" I hiss, my voice almost rising to a shriek.

He shakes his head furiously. "It doesn't matter. I couldn't… I couldn't sleep at all, no matter how much I turned over, no matter how many times I walked around the house. Because all I could think of was you and him. And this morning, when you came into the bakery, it was just you, and… I _forgot_. For a moment, I forgot that you two were even an item, and I promised myself that I was just being idiotic last night. But you see, Katniss, for me, the lines between what I imagined and what's real have blurred so much that I seemed to convince myself that maybe you didn't love him, and that maybe everything last night had been an awful nightmare. And I promised myself, over and over again, that maybe you two _weren't_ really together, at least, not like… not like I was thinking…"

I feel chills shooting up and down my spine at his mention of the ill-defined line between what's real and what's not. Every nightmare sends me deeper and deeper into that foggy haze of uncertainty, and I know that Peeta struggles all the same. I understand _exactly_ how Gale feels. Helpless, scared, as if his reality is unreliable and may collapse around him any moment. Like the world is about to cave in.

I take a step closer, but Gale shrivels away. "And then when he arrived this morning, and you talked about how—how he was your _dandelion_… and how he was your hope, and your future, and your reason to move on, and—" His hands have begun to tug at the roots of his chestnut hair, his teeth gritted, jaw rigid. He paces back and forth before me as I stand in horror, afraid that he's about to have an episode of his own, just as Peeta does. "—I just can't do it, Katniss! I can't _look_ at you anymore! I can't bear to see the way that you two are when you're around each other. It's one thing when you say you love him, but it's a million times worse to _see_ how he looks at you, as if you're the only star in his sky. It _kills_ me. You're the one thing in this entire world that reminds me of home, and how things used to be before it all went straight to hell, and… and you're _gone_. You're _his_. And I have to sit here and watch you two fawn over each other in front of all of Panem." And then his voice grows soft, but sports no less pain. "Do you understand how excruciating this is?"

Maybe I do; maybe I don't. I've never had to watch the person I love as they love someone else. The sting that Gale identifies with is envious, grudging and warped, which is a sentiment I'm not familiar with. But I do know the pain of loss, more so than nearly anyone—and Gale _does_ feel as if he's lost me.

"I don't know, Gale," I murmur, my vision darting to the swirls of dirt he's kicked up. My chest aches at the notion that my hands are tied. The only thing that can comfort Gale is an act that is not only impossible but absolutely revolting to consider. The old, negligent Katniss from before the war probably would have kissed him without thinking, in attempt to give him what he craved, but I know better now. First of all, one kiss wouldn't satisfy him, and it would certainly crush Peeta if he found out. Not to mention, my attraction for Gale has tapered into nonexistence, so it would be a lie. A sixteen-year-old Katniss thought that kisses could solve everything—they could bring in gifts from sponsors during the games, they could provide fleeting consolation of necessary. But the eighteen-year-old Katniss has learned that only kisses from Peeta, genuine in nature, pure in intent, can heal wounds.

"What do you want me to do?"

Gale clenches his jaw. "There is nothing you can do."

"There's got to be _something_." As strong-willed as I've become, my restless soul refuses to believe in the possibility of no solution.

"There is literally nothing you can do, Katniss," he reinforces, much more stalwartly this time around. "The only thing that can be done is something that _I_ have to do, and I don't think… I don't know if I'm strong enough."

He doesn't have to explain for me to understand. If he wants us to maintain a decent friendship, even if that consists of little more than weekly letters and occasional phone calls, he'll have to not only accept my relationship with Peeta, but train himself to deal with it conventionally. Apparently, that is far more difficult than I imagine it to be—Gale is strong, and if what I have with Peeta is enough to crumble him into broken shards, it must be fairly overwhelming.

"Gale, I—" I take a step closer. "—I really want to be friends with you. When you leave, after the propos have been filmed, I don't want you to slip away like you did before." I'm unsure of whether I want this bond for my own happiness or because I know he'll crumble without it. Maybe not right away, but I can tell this isolation erodes him day by day until the point where he'll be nothing but a pile of ash. It may take months—maybe even years—but his deterioration is inevitable. We all need someone to pick us up when we're falling down.

He sighs jaggedly. "But that's can't happen. I need… I need _you_, Katniss, but I can't have you." He coughs and turns to the wall, but his voice still rings clear in the crisp autumn air.

We stand with several feet between us, but it could be miles, miles of rolling ocean and rocky desert. Our disconnect fills the silence, clings to our skin like another layer of clothing. We have reached a hopeless stale mate, no pragmatic method of compromise in sight. I can't be content knowing that he's in pain, and he can't be content unless I'm with him. But I need Peeta in a way I swore I would never need anyone; I can't bear to not be by his side, in his arms, the recipient of his showers of tender kisses.

There is no tactic that will result in a win for both of us.

"I just need to be loved," he whimpers softly.

I ache to tell him that he is. Not in the way he so desires, but in a very platonic, modest fashion. I wish that was enough.

"There's someone out there for you, Gale. I promise."

He laughs humorlessly, his eyes storming. "Don't think for a second that I haven't tried to replace you, Katniss. In the Capitol, there is absolutely no shortage of women."

This hurts more than it should; to keep quiet, I bite my cheek until the faint taste of blood pools in my mouth. Even though I feel no magnetism toward Gale, the thought of him in bed with others, sexual demeanor meaningless and empty, ignites a sickness in the pit of my stomach. I hate to think that's what Gale has reduced to.

"I'm sorry," he apologizes once he sees the disgust warp my features. "That came out wrong."

With Gale, everything comes out wrong. He's always been too impulsive for a filter.

"Why would you tell me that?"

His face contorts, pinching in agony. "I just wanted you to know that I'm trying. I've been trying to move on for a year."

"You do realize that pain isn't easy to get rid of, right, Gale?" I bid almost sardonically. "It's not like one night, or two nights, or even seven are going to magically cure you of your burdens. You've got to pick yourself up over and over again regardless of how many times the world knocks you to the ground."

"But you said we need to find our dandelion, Katniss," he tosses back flatly. "And I don't have one. Not without you."

My stomach twists painfully. "Gale, stop acting like I'm _dead_. I'm alive, you know."

"Yeah, only because of someone else."

I feel a sharp pain prick through my chest. _He's right._ Without Peeta, I can't imagine where I would've found my motivation to recover. Maybe I wouldn't have improved at all.

"You know, for having a job of which the primary purpose is to give people hope—"

"Don't even mention it. I can't keep working for Plutarch. I need to get out of that damn Capitol."

In that instant, a flicker of a thought materializes in my jaded mind. I am unsure of where it originated, how it occurred, but I find it slipping from my lips before I can restrain it.

"Why don't you go back to Seven with Johanna?"

His brow furrows and he stares at me as if I've just told him I have a third arm.

"Johanna?"

"Yes."

"Johanna _Mason_?"

My mind attempts to formulate how such an outrageous idea came to mind. I fumble defensively for a justification. "I mean, you two—you get along so _well_… well, for Johanna, that is—"

"She'd skewer me before I even stepped off of the train!"

I feel my face growing hotter. "Sorry. I just thought I'd make a suggestion."

Rejected, mocked, I begin to step away before his large hand grasps me by the bicep to pull me back.

"It's not like I would hate going back with Johanna," he sputters. "I mean, she's one of very few people who even care to really listen to me anymore, but… I don't know. I think she'd much rather be alone."

"I don't know, Gale. If you could get past the constant ridicule, I bet you'd find that she craves company just as much as you."

As if he could see her, his head cranes to look around the corner of the bakery, although she's nowhere in view. But suddenly, as if on cue, the resiliently fierce woman appears, hands running through her short-cropped chocolate hair.

"Well, I hope you two got some nice chatting in, because Katniss has been summoned."

I lift an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Peeta got his clip on the first shot, too. Well, technically, the second—but they stopped him about a minute into the first because all he was talking about was you. It was quite nauseating, actually." She picks uninterestedly at her nails. "But he nailed it the second time around. That boy's quite the charmer, Brainless. If you ever decide you don't want him anymore, I'm sure there'll be a mile-long line waiting for him outside the bakery."

Gale folds slightly at my side, chin tucking down, face reddening. I feel a heat burning in my own cheeks as I decide to go out on a limb.

"Johanna, Gale has something to ask you."

His head snaps up and he looks at me, panicked. I just wink. Like he said, he needs his own dandelion, and if he manages to make it through a week without receiving an axe to the skull, I imagine that maybe, just maybe, she could be it.

"What?"

"I'll let him say it." I stride past her, leaving the two of them in the dust behind me, a touch of a smirk wrinkling over my lips. He may resent me forever for leaving him alone to fend for himself around Johanna… but maybe, miraculously, things might smooth themselves out. And we can find a way to draw back from this agonizing stale mate.

When I round the corner, Peeta's prep team is back to work on his face, dabbing it with powder as his nose crinkles up, eyes shut. Before I can stride up to him, three pairs of hands are instantly on me, pulling me back.

"Oh, dear, what's happened to your _hair_?" Venia oozes, horrified.

Without a word, Flavius has attacked my face, dabbing my lids with another layer of nude-tainted eye shadow. I feel ambushed.

"Your nails are still in good shape, though. I'm so proud of you!"

When Flavius has drawn away from my eyes, I will them to open to find Peeta's gaze locked on me. He's chuckling silently across the way, his blue orbs gleaming as brilliantly as ever.

After what feels like years, but probably amounts to only a minute, our prep teams withdraw, and I find myself bounding up to the boy with the bread. He welcomes me with loving arms as I almost knock him to the ground, his breath getting lost in my thick hair.

"It's nice to see you, too," he chuckles, slightly confused at my fervency but accepting it nevertheless. Just as always. "Where were you during the filming?"

I find no reason to shield him from the truth. "Johanna dragged me away so I could talk to Gale and try to mend things."

Peeta kisses my temple. I know that he's observant and understanding enough to grasp that, despite my discussion with him yesterday, things hadn't improved. Technically, the tension stretched between Gale and I is far less strenuous than before, after our little discussion, but I can attribute this primarily to the distraction of Johanna. Other than that, we'd hardly resolved the conflict, only pushed it aside for a rainy day.

After I sigh against his chest, I feel his voice lacing around my ear. "And… how did it go?"

I tilt my chin up, hair tumbling from my shoulders, cascading down my back. "Call me crazy, but I think I accidentally set him up with Johanna."

A sharp chuckle escapes from Peeta's lips before he manages to stifle what's left. "I'm sorry," he apologizes, but he can't contain his amusement for long. "I think I actually feel sorry for him."

"I doubt anything will happen between them, because they're both so goddamn stubborn, but I was running out of ideas…"

Peeta's eyes lose focus for a moment, trailing off above my head, before another round of chuckles bubbles from his throat. "I can only imagine how awful that relationship would be. She'd probably lodge the axe in his head within a month."

"I was thinking the same thing, but I was expecting it'd take little more than a week."

His lips press against my forehead. "My little matchmaker," he teases.

I draw back, shooting daggers with my eyes his direction. "I could take you, you know."

"Could you?" he challenges, lifting a brow tauntingly with a provocative smile spreading over his lips.

"I'm pretty strong for my size. And my reflexes are better than yours."

"Sounds like a threat to me, miss."

"It's a promise."

He interrupts our string of playful banter with a kiss to my lips, stealing the breath from my lungs, my chest drawing up to his. But before it can deepen, someone from behind us is clearing their throat, and alarmed, I jolt away.

"Are you ready to film?" Plutarch prods, seemingly unfazed by the display of affection.

Peeta looks to me. "I am if you are."

I nod, and Plutarch shouts directives at the stagnant camera crews that crowd the town square. Once he's far enough away from us, I feel my palms aligning with Peeta's as his fingers interlock between mine.

He murmurs with voice as silky and inviting as ever, "Let's show Panem just how star-crossed these lovers really are."

* * *

_Voila! Let me know what you think! How was Katniss's speech? Do you think she said all she needed? (If not, please tell me. I can always go back and edit this chapter!)_

_And what about the tension between her and Gale? Personally, I feel like there will always be a shifty disconnect there, because they've both changed since the war but they still want to be friends. So they have to fight across this barrier of misunderstandings in order to be civil. _

_Also. Gale and Johanna. Yes? No? ;)_

_I apologize—this was far from my best writing, and I'm sure there's a myriad of mistakes all throughout this chapter, considering I've been surviving on four hours of sleep a night for this past week and it is now two in the morning and I'm trying to edit. Gah._

_Now I need to sleep. Again, please, donate some feedback if you can! I always want to implement improvements where they fit!_

_Have a très bon week-end, mes chers!_


	21. An Invitation

_I feel like a broken record for saying this so much, but I suppose I'm incredibly lucky to be able to-thank you SO much for the feedback last chapter! I've reached the conclusion that I have the best readers in the entire world. You guys are so incredibly kind and inspiring._

_I hope you enjoy this chapter that I have for you! I wrote it a little quicker than most chapters, because I'm so eager to get it out to you guys... so I apologize for any errors or if it seems kind of rushed. Let me know what you think! :)_

**_Disclaimer: I own nothing._**

* * *

They part almost as quickly as they arrived.

We finish the filming in a two-day period, handing Plutarch more than enough usable footage. This process proceeded reasonably quickly, the only clip that necessitated more than two takes being the segment on Peeta and I. I was allowing Peeta to do far too much of the talking, which frustrated Plutarch to no end—and when I attempted to pitch in, I would stumble over my words and my face would flush to the shade of a tomato. For someone who is relatively comfortable with their lover, I surely have little success with appropriately expressing it in front of the entire nation.

On the last day of occupation, before the sun has descended behind the tree line, I dart to the woods for a quick hunt. I seek easy prey to bring back to Peeta's with me—even though the friction is still extant between many of us, our visitors deserve a farewell banquet of some sort, as they've done far more for me than presumed.

As I'm checking my snares, the sound of leaves crunching behind me sends me whirling around with a my bow prepped, arrow shifting into place. I'm shocked to find no animal; rather, I've been tracked down by Gale.

He lifts his hands in surrender and I allow the giant pocket of air in my lungs to release, my face growing hot and tingly. "Damn it, Gale. I thought you were an animal."

"Imagine having to explain that to Plutarch. 'Oh, sorry, I accidentally maimed your crony.' He'd surely take it well."

I all but completely disregard his antics as I lower my bow. "What are you doing out here?"

He steps closer, hands buried deep in his pockets. "We're leaving tomorrow, and… I realized this might be the last time I get to talk to you alone for a while. Face-to-face, I mean."

I smile sadly at him. Based on raw expectations, these circumstances have brought me and Gale closer than I could've imagined, but at the same time, we remain oceans apart. This disconnect between the two of us seems unconquerable; we will never understand each other the way we used to. Aside from the war, which is an obvious cause in and of itself, another source of this disjunction clearly arises with Peeta, and how Gale will never understand the way that boy has mended scores of my fractures, given me a hope that proves to be beyond him. He's sustained his exaggeratedly cynical outlook, unable to comprehend a love that is fruitful rather than destructive and coarse.

"You know, you could always stay in Twelve."

His chin tilts upwards as he squints at the sky overhead, as if it's foreign, mystifying—not the same sky that looms above every passing day.

"Let's be honest, Catnip. That'd be even more painful than going back to the Capitol."

I suppose it would, for Gale. He's never been one to stomach change too well. Residing in what used to be his home but has now morphed into some empty yet convalescing place, I have no doubt that waking up to entirely distorted circumstances—the absence of most of his family apart from Rory, the relationship between Peeta and I—would demolish him after so long. At least the Capitol was a decent attempt at a fresh start.

I bite my lip and turn away.

"Besides…" he continues, and almost immediately the hesitation encroaching on his low voice sends a swell of suspicion through my bones. I whirl back around.

"Besides, what?"

He smiles guiltily up at me. "I have other plans."

"Oh?" I raise an eyebrow. _Of getting out of the Capitol?_

Gale raises a hand to tow his fingers through his hair. The poor boy actually appears _nervous_, of all things. How uncharacteristic.

I watch as he gulps.

"I'm going back to Seven with Johanna."

His admission levels me like a freight train and I nearly stumble backwards in surprise. I suppose I should've seen this coming—after my weak attempt at matchmaking, something between them had seemed a little… off, generously. He gravitated just slightly more in her direction during conversation, eyes remaining on her face for a few seconds after she'd stop speaking. Subconsciously, this alteration had protruded just enough for my mind to take note of, but not enough to grab my full attention.

Deep down, I reach in an endeavor to unearth some sort of dissatisfaction at the situation; frustration, jealousy, resentment. But, like the day that Gale walked away from me, breaking nearly every tie between us, all I find is some bizarre sense of alleviation. Maybe, just maybe, he and I will be able to settle on some degree of camaraderie if all goes well with the two of them.

I find myself stifling a smile at his declaration. "Weren't _you_ the one to essentially call me crazy for suggesting you pair up with her?"

A blush trickles into his cheeks and his shoulders lower, as if he's nothing more than a timid schoolboy.

"I still feel like I may be signing off on my own death certificate, but… I want to try this. If anyone understands where I come from, apart from you, it'd be her."

"I can't believe that my little scheme actually _worked_."

He bites back a bashful grin. "Don't get too excited. We haven't even gotten on the train yet." Avoiding my drilling stare, he chuckles. "And we're just _friends_."

"Sure."

"We are!" He shoots me a pointed glare.

"As of now…"

A whirl of crisp leaves swells by his feet as he kicks them up with his boot, but he says nothing else. He accompanies me as I hunt, limiting the conversation until after I've brought down a wild turkey. I stuff it in my game bag and lead Gale toward the frame of the woods as the sky overhead begins to dim, the sun sinking below the horizon—the world around us is golden, shimmering in dying light, buttery, enchanting in its grandeur.

Gale tilts his head to face me as we march over the uneven terrain. "I forgot, I was supposed to ask you something on behalf of Plutarch. It's, apparently, my last task to complete before he'll accept my official resignation."

"Shoot away," I invite.

"I know it's a little late, but… he was wondering if you'd shoot one last propo in the morning."

A frustrated sigh bursts through clenched teeth. "Doesn't he already have enough?"

"He's hoping that you'll sing, or something along those lines. I was a little distracted when he was asking me."

It's beyond me as to why Plutarch wouldn't just ask me himself—but, then again, half of Plutarch's proceedings are fairly unaccountable as is. I fleetingly recall singing along to "The Hanging Tree" and being filmed while doing so. It had angered me, having to share my private moment with the entirety of Panem.

Not much has changed.

"I think I'll pass."

He seems to have anticipated my rejection and is not angry when I turn him down. Nevertheless, he prods, "Why?"

This is not an explanation that I desire lending to Gale. In the past several months, singing has become nearly a sacred ritual—I sing to Peeta when he's submerged in a hallucination, when he's having trouble sleeping, when I want to tell him how I feel about him in a fashion that words never can. My song is private, is reserved for those who mean the world to me and nothing less.

And even though I'm more able to open up to Gale than I was upon his arrival, even he can't be a recipient of this secret of mine. Only Peeta holds that entitlement.

"My throat's kind of sore," is all I pipe back with.

When we return to the house, once again, we're greeted by a fervently animated Johanna as she bounces around the kitchen with Peeta. Only this time, there's no mess—no layer of flour dusting over the entire kitchen—but the conversation is just as lively.

As I stride through the threshold, I find Johanna attempting to show Peeta how to wield an axe, utilizing a whisk to demonstrate. "…and if you don't align your shoulders like this—"

"Johanna, I think that it's incredibly generous of you to give Peeta axe-slinging lessons, but let's be honest. The boy can barely use a flyswatter." I lob my game bag on the kitchen counter. "Unrelatedly, I brought back another turkey. Damn deer have mastered the art of camouflage."

Peeta turns to me, his indigo eyes illuminating. "Now _that's_ something I'm good at!"

"Bringing back turkey?" Johanna scrunches up her nose.

"Camouflage."

I secretly thank the stars that he's had no reason to put that talent into practice over the past year.

He's been chopping bell peppers, setting the knife down to embrace me in the doorway. His arms wind around my waist as my palms bracket his face, and he smiles down at me with untainted affection, pure and true in all its opulence. We don't kiss, but the moment between us seems just as intimate. When I look away, I notice that Gale has brushed his palm over Johanna's shoulder, nearly possessively.

But if there is some discomfort there, he does not display it otherwise. And he continues to conceal it throughout the remainder of the night. When he sees my hand folded under Peeta's, or when Peeta leans over to whisper something in my ear during dinner, Gale does not become compassionless and cold as he used to. Either he's exceptional with cloaking his feelings, or whatever he has brewing at this exponential rate with Johanna is serving as a light in his otherwise darkened tunnel.

I pray it's the latter of the two. Aside from the occasional disputes, which I'm sure would be relentlessly vicious in nature, Gale and Johanna would be good for each other. They're both inherently passionate, sharp… and they've both experienced the other's worst nightmares. They understand each other's scars, nightmares, fears, just as I understand Peeta and he understands me.

After supper has concluded, and we bid goodbye to Plutarch and Gale for the night, Peeta and I slink upstairs without Johanna. If she wants to sneak off to Gale's room for the night, we won't obstruct.

I take a quick shower before climbing into bed with Peeta, who has already fallen asleep from the exhaustive day of constant filming. But the moment I curl up against his chest, he stirs slightly and his lips dizzily find my forehead.

"It's weird to think that, tomorrow night, it will—it will be just be the two of us again," he murmurs, in a daze from the fog of sleep.

I pull the covers up as far as they'll go without ensconcing our faces. "I'm so relieved, but at the same time… I don't know. I feel like things will get a lot more solitary around here. Although they pissed me off to no end half the time, I did enjoy having them around. Having Johanna to talk to. And Gale."

His palms begin to trace circles over my back. "I know. But, like you said before they came… once they're gone, we have each other, right? That should suffice."

I remember the words clearly, ringing in my head with no opacity. _And once we're done with all that, we can be at ease for once. We can get on with the rest of our lives. And it'll just be you and me, Peeta._

How beautifully depressing that reality has become. While the notion of being with Peeta, and only Peeta, seems inexorably peaceful, it's almost empty.

"It will suffice. I'm just thankful that I have you." I bury my face into the heat of his bare chest. "I would be the most lonely soul."

His lips connect with mine for a brief moment, extracting a rush of passion from the depths of my chest, reminding me of one of the countless reasons that I need him.

It seems so long ago that we spoke those words, agreeing to the propos in the clandestineness of this bedroom. Although those notions are no less true now than they were back then, they bring a nearly melancholic ring as they pervade my mind, saturating it to the brim. I still need Peeta as much as I had that night, if not more. But as this event comes to a close, my horizons seem less bleak. As if, maybe, I'm not condemned to a life of solitude, my only release being the boy with the bread.

Though he's quite a release at that.

And when we awake in the morning, bodies stiff but well-rested, we accompany each other to the kitchen where Peeta begins to whip up some eggs. We discover that Johanna's room is empty, and we donate each other knowing looks, but no words are exchanged. And just as we're about to eat, she and Gale show up at our door, circles under their eyes but smiles on their lips. Although I'm shocked by how quickly their closeness has escalated, just as Gale had the night before, I stifle the rogue sentiments. Our time is severely limited. There's no room left for conflict.

We all trek to the meadow to bid farewell to Plutarch as he boards the hovercraft; he shakes Peeta's hand firmly before pulling me into an unanticipated hug.

"It was good seeing you, Mockingjay."

And with that last mention of the symbol, I take a deep breath and shed the title. My days as the Mockingjay are over. Now, I am Katniss Everdeen, hunter from District 12, partner of Peeta Mellark. Not the Mockingjay, not the Girl on Fire. Only Katniss. As the label disintegrates into the air overhead, I instantly feel ten pounds lighter—we'd been right, Peeta and I. The war inside of me diminishes as an element of peace begins to seep into my core.

After Plutarch has boarded the hovercraft, the four of us part from the meadow, proceeding toward the train station. I try to swallow through my thickened throat as they gather their things; and suddenly, the train has pulled in. Our time is up.

_They part almost as quickly as they arrived._

Numerous hugs are exchanged, quick, heart-felt goodbyes; even Gale and Peeta shake hands, and Johanna pulls me in and practically squeezes the life out of me.

"I'll miss you, Brainless."

I laugh despite the tears that well up in my eyes.

"You, too."

And finally, it's Gale's turn to pull me into him with more authenticity than I've experienced this entire week. He sighs into my hair, his breath almost as jagged as mine.

"Thank you, Catnip," he chokes out.

A ball of warmth wads in my stomach at the nickname. I'll miss it, surely.

"For what?"

He pulls back, his grey eyes shimmering as he looks to Johanna.

"For planting a dandelion."

And with that, the train whistles from behind them, summoning their admission. They wave goodbye as they drag their luggage onto the dock, boarding the vessel with nostalgic grins, streaked with tears.

Then they're gone.

I don't realize that I'm crying until Peeta has roped me into his embrace, holding my head against his rising chest. Over the ridges of my braid, he trails his fingers delicately, soothingly. But we do not speak, because there is nothing that needs to be said.

When we've both regained our composure enough to part from the station, Peeta guides me back to the bakery with him. Haymitch is running the registers, Rory assisting a customer with a pie, as Peeta takes me behind the counter. We're about to slip into the backroom when my feet bring me to a dramatic halt.

I peer over to Rory.

"Why didn't you see your brother go this morning?"

Interfaces between the two of them have been strenuous, to say the least, since Gale's return; and unlike me, Rory was never afforded an adequate chance to smooth out the wrinkles in their relationship. While I was able to dig deep and discover the roots of our disjunction, Rory could not.

But he surprises by meeting my glance with a smile.

"He'll be back," Rory asserts confidently just before Peeta tugs me through the doors to the kitchen.

The scent of rising dough shimmers through the bakery, calming my inelastic muscles.

"How about you stay here with me today," Peeta gently invites, the pads of his fingers tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear before outlining my jaw. "I assume you don't want to be alone."

"You assume correctly."

He doesn't leave me for one minute the entire day. I prop myself up on the counter as he works around the kitchen, my eyes sometimes focused on his movements, beautiful and calculated with each motion; sometimes, they lose their focus entirely, and within a minute Peeta has surrounded me, peppering my skin with kisses until I'm drawn back into reality.

It's sick to think that, before, I'd assumed this entire ordeal would give me peace of mind and fill me up. But I haven't felt so emptied out in ages. Finally, I made amends with Gale and found comfort in Johanna… and now, they've been severed from me. It's almost as if I've lost a limb.

After we've closed down the bakery, Peeta and I trek back to the Victor's Village, hand in hand, engulfed in the penetrating silence of the world around us. He's discovered that, today, no words can drag me from this pit of gloom that I've fallen back into; he does not attempt to speak. Instead, he comforts me with delicate touches.

I remain with Peeta as he prepares dinner, practically attached to his hip the entire evening. We eat in relative silence before retreating to the living room where he lights a fire and curls up with me underneath a blanket. His arm latches to my hip and I allow my head to rest on his shoulder, body growing limp in exhaustion, eyes entranced with the flickering orange of the flame.

"I didn't think this would happen," I murmur after a while, slightly startled by the sound of my own voice as it emerges from my desiccated lips.

"Mm?" he croons.

I allow my cheek to embed deeper against his bicep. "I thought that shooting these propos would make me feel better. More complete. More at _peace_."

"But that's because you were looking to cut ties from the rest of the world at the time, love." He says it so considerately, yet so matter-of-factly, that I'm convinced I should've anticipated this the entire time. "And now, you want to be connected."

"I should be happy that we're done and my title as the Mockingjay has expired. That should be enough."

At my side, I hear his sigh meld in with the crackle of the fire. "Don't beat yourself up like that. You've just realized that there are more pieces to your puzzle than you thought. So now they're not so easy to discard."

Peeta's right. I hadn't acknowledged how valuable my relationship with the outside world could become, but now that I've gotten a taste, the craving for more is ruthless.

When I don't respond, I feel him tilt his chin to kiss my temple. "I hate seeing you like this. I wish there was something I could do."

_But you've done everything,_ I yearn to tell him. Without him, I'd have crumbled into an unsolvable puzzle of broken shards by now.

"Just… don't leave me, Peeta," I whimper. He's all I have left.

Underneath me, his body shifts as he turns to face me, gripping my cheeks in his warm, weathered palms. His icy blue eyes have aligned with mine, promising me everything, giving me the world. "I will never leave you."

And in this life, characteristically encompassed by doubt and suspect, Peeta's statement leaves me questioning nothing. I do not hesitate to trust his assertion with everything I own.

He reinforces this ideal repeatedly, over and over until it's drilled into my brain. First, when I tell him I need a shower, he runs the bath for me and sits beside the tub while I soak in the pool of water. He holds my hand, eyes avoiding my body in true gentleman etiquette, filling the silence with meaningless chatter that distracts me for just long enough.

And in the middle of the night, when I awake from a particularly vicious nightmare, his arms are already twined around my sweat-caked, thrashing body. His lips whisper kisses all over me, leaving my skin tingling where they brush, fingers tracing up and down my length until my mind clears enough to stop sobbing. Peeta promises that he loves me once, then twice, then three times, and I wish with every aching bone in my body that I could say it back.

It takes a few weeks to ease back into our routine. The first few days are nearly impossible, and I find myself constantly latched onto Peeta like a parasite. In general, he seems fairly well put-together, although I often question if he's only sporting his steadfast resolve to provide me with a strong anchor. That's the type of selfless action that Peeta is well-versed with.

After I receive the first letter from Johanna and Gale, which is reasonably brief but uplifting all the same, I gather the energy to trek out to the woods again. After doing so, I begin to wonder what had been stopping me in the first place. Now, when I shoot my bow, what had once been a jerking reaction that elicited painful flashbacks has now turned into a powerful method of alleviation. I return to Peeta in a much more upbeat fashion than when I had parted, which seems to donate a much-needed energy boost to him. Because the air outside is frigid, unfriendly in nature, when we agree to dance this time, we remain indoors. Peeta tunes his radio into the same station as before as we rock back and forth by the fire, my head resting on his chest, absorbing his heartbeat.

We steadily heal again, quite slowly this time around, but the progress is undeniable; Peeta is painting again, and I've begun to write biographies alongside his portraits. The book that contained the faces and descriptions of the deceased had been originally intended to solidify their memories—we feel we're not skewing too far from the original purpose when we start a new section in the back of the book with faces of friends who are still alive but merit the same courtesy. The first we do is Johanna, then Gale, then Plutarch and Alta. Then my mother. Although I'm a little reluctant at first to alter the content of the book, after relentless justification, Peeta coerces me into agreement. _You should cling on to the memories of the living just as sincerely as the dead. In the end, they're all significant in one way or another._

I regress substantially for one day, however, fading back into the endless cavity of impenetrable black. I awake in the morning to an empty bed, the cold dwarfing all other senses as the realization decks me like a hurricane.

It's been a year. A year of peace, of hope, but…

A year without Prim.

The propos are set to air today, illustrating to the entire nation that I have hope, that I have encouragement for them, but now, I feel so helpless.

I curl up underneath the stiff sheets of the bed and whimper softly into my pillow, wishing with every bone in my trembling body that Peeta were here to remind me of why I'm still alive without my sister.

Maybe I've supernaturally willed his return, but within a minute, the sound of creaking door hinges swells through the room, and I hear the delicate clink of china against the endtable before the mattress underneath me shifts. Peeta curls up against my spine, tucking his knees into the backs of mine, nose nuzzling against the side of my neck.

"I brought you tea, love."

My mouth, dry and sour, craves some type of solution but my stomach flips with the thought. Whatever goes in will probably come right back up, I'm afraid.

But I can't speak to tell him any of this. My vocal cords have immobilized, my tongue solidified to the roof of my mouth.

"You can stay in bed all day, if you'd like. I already told Rory and Haymitch to close down the bakery with the excuse of it being some weird national holiday. So I can stay with you."

A soft whimper bubbles in my throat.

Against the warm skin of my neck, his lips gently press, and then they move down to my shoulders, the top of my spine, relaxing the muscles underneath the skin where they carry.

"If you need anything, let me know," he whispers, his tender voice washing over my shoulder blade.

As of now, all I need his him and my sister—but only one of those necessities is plausible.

He snakes his arms around my silhouette and holds me in his bed for what could be hours; I don't know. In this impermeable gloom, time has become a vacuum. It does not exist anymore. It cannot be measured by ticks of the clock, or by bells tolling in town—only by the steady rise and fall of Peeta's chest, the rhythmic instability of my sniffles, of whimpers.

I fade in and out of consciousness throughout the day, as I'm sure he does as well. But he does not let go of me, not for an instant, refusing to leave my side as promised.

When the darkness outside of the open window begins to settle on the district, and the room is encompassed in the cutting cold once more, Peeta offers to light a fire for me. My entire body has become frozen to the core, and even though I doubt it'll prove to be very effective, I comply with a feeble nod. He carries me down the stairs as if I'm a limp rag doll, laying me out before the fire as he begins to set up the wood. Beside me, the remote to the television that we never use lies on the floor, and I grab it, ready to turn it on to watch the propos.

But just before my finger urges down on the red button, Peeta is at my side, gently untangling the device from my cold fingers. "Please, don't watch them. It'll only make you hurt more."

And he's right. Peeta, who has always been the mastermind behind the analysis of emotions and reactions, understands well that seeing anything relating to the war will destroy me all over again.

For the first time since before I awoke this morning, Peeta parts from me for a brief moment to go whip something up in the kitchen. He returns presently, curled up before the hearth, pulling me onto his lap and rocking me like a child.

After a while, he sets me on the floor again to go tend to the oven, whatever he's baking, and within a moment he's returned with a plate. On it, about ten cheese buns have been stacked in an intricate pile. He offers it to me.

"You haven't eaten all day."

My weak fingers hesitantly take one, holding it up to my dried lips. Peeta sure knows how to break through my walls. When my teeth crunch into the crust, my stomach doesn't churn like I expect it to; instead, it balls up a sensation of warmth in my core as I set the half-eaten slice back down on the plate.

And, for the first time since yesterday, I feel my voice stirring in my throat.

"Why do you take care of me, Peeta? What have I ever done to deserve your attention?"

He pulls me back onto his lap, pressing his forehead into my temple as his eyes squeeze shut. "You know, for someone who seems to be so tuned-in to this dandelion notion, you sure are oblivious."

My brow furrows in confusion. "What?"

And suddenly, his eyes have opened, and he peers up at me through golden lashes, the blue from his stare engulfing me in wonder.

"You give me just as much hope as anything, Katniss. If it hadn't been for you, I don't think I ever would've recovered from the hijacking. I'd probably still be an emotional basket-case, clawing at my own skin in a Capitol institution."

"Don't say that."

"It's true," he bids back, his voice harder this time. "Even as a kid, you've always given me hope. Maybe back then, that desire was irrational—I was praying for a girl I assumed I would never have. But I would watch you go home every day, _every_ day, and my mornings would be so much easier when I realized I would be able to see you soon enough."

I feel my throat growing thick as a melancholic grin works its way onto my features.

"And now, now that we've lost everything, and some days I wake up and hardly remember who I am, it's because of you that I can anchor myself back into reality. My episodes have become so much less violent with you around, so much less frequent. Like you, there are mornings where I'm crushed with the realization that almost everything I loved is gone, but then I remember… I have you. And, in your own words, I guess you're _my_ dandelion, too. You promise me that this world isn't hopeless. That the future can only get better. You're the most inspiring thing in my life, Katniss, and so of course, I have every reason in the book to try to take care of you."

It seemed bizarre for someone as sinless and virtuous as Peeta to find some skewed form of hope in the corrupted girl that's folded on his lap. Peeta was always better than I was—he was a merchant boy with food on his table every night, with a bright future, with so much laid out for him… and I was a broken soul who had to fight every day for the right to survive. How had the blue-eyed boy with the bread found solace in a destructive girl from the Seam?

"Wouldn't it be easier just to cut your losses and move on?"

He stares up at me in frustrated disbelief, his jaw hanging open.

"You think that I could survive without you? Katniss, I'm alive right now because of you. I'm _happy_, more or less. Every morning that I wake up, and find you in my arms, I have to ask myself if I'm awake or if I'm living in some insanely elongated dream. You're all I've ever wanted, _needed_, and… I have you now, miraculously. I couldn't ever let you go."

I brace his cheeks in between my palms, suddenly, fervently, pulling him up to me for a revitalizing kiss. His lips are eager on mine, passionate, consoling, _everything_ I need, as I feel his palms rake over my back, under my shirt. His touch feels like velvet, sending shivers up and down my spine, my breath growing jagged and desperate.

"I can't ever let you go, either," I promise him.

He sighs through parted lips, fingers braiding in my hair.

"I love you, Katniss. With everything I have."

This warmth that has rooted in the depths of my core begins to grow, simmer; my tongue possesses the words to murmur back, but I can't bring myself to release them. A simple "I love you, too," will not suffice. Peeta deserves so much _more_.

In the back of my mind, an idea begins to seethe in the process of formulating the proper method of telling him. Over the past year, words have proven to never serve us justice. Only actions can convey our emotions in their raw objective.

And so now, this inkling of a thought begins to expand, as I feel the desire in my stomach mounting and overtaking every inch of my body. I suppose I should be afraid, and I know that in a few moments, once the invitation has flooded from my parted lips, I will be. I will be _terrified_.

But this is Peeta, my love, my everything, my dandelion.

I have nothing to be afraid of.

The words begin to bubble in my throat as his lips part from mine, and I draw back, losing myself for a brief moment in the exquisite blue of his irises as he grins up at me.

My mouth opens and I feel the request dancing on my tongue.

_I want you to know how much I love you, Peeta._

His brow furrows as he senses my hesitation. "What is it?"

I shake my head and bring my lips back down to his, the desire still clinging to every facet of my system. It's bubbling behind my teeth, and I want to ask him, I _need_ to ask him. I need him to know the full extent of how I feel for him.

His breaths are shallow, frantic, as he kisses me back with no restraint, and I feel myself gulp as the invitation escapes from my hesitant lips in a whisper so silent, so fervid, so definite even through its tremor.

"Make love to me, Peeta."


	22. Unravel

_Hey, troopers! Sorry for leaving you on that cliffhanger for so long. But I have a good excuse! I've been spending this extra time writing not one, but __**two**__ chapters for you on this same scene! This is how I've decided to attempt to make the majority of my readers happy—right here, you have the chapter from Katniss's perspective, still rated 'Teen'. I think it'd be unfair to basically abandon all of my younger readers and alter the rating, so here, it'll stay the same. I attempted to write this scene based on what Katniss is thinking, partially what she's feeling, without getting too graphic—I skipped the mechanics. Trust me, I'm well-versed with the requirements for the 'Teen' category, and I'm pretty sure I stayed within the boundaries. ;)_

_**However**__, I know that many of you wanted to read this chapter from a more detailed point of view (mechanics and all!) so I decided to post a one-shot separately, rated 'Mature'. This one-shot (Which, if you go to my profile, is entitled "Miracles") is pretty much the exact same chapter—give or take a little conversation—written in Peeta's perspective. So, there's a little something for everyone! (Hopefully.) I thought that it'd be appropriate to keep the 'Teen' one written from Katniss's POV, since she's the pure one, after all. ;) I apologize if any of you wanted something else, I'm just doing the best I can!_

_ Well, here you go, the moment that 90% of you have been waiting for for quite some time now. Happy readings!_

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing!**_

* * *

Underneath my touch, Peeta's entire body grows rigid.

"What?"

_Make love to me, Peeta_. The request lingers lucidly over our heads, blood flushing in my cheeks as it does so, heating my entire face as I snake my palms up his chest. "I want—I'd like to be _with_ you… in that way…"

His blue irises station on me, presenting bewildered shock, as if I've just asked him to saw my arm off. I do not doubt that Peeta has been waiting for this moment for quite a while now, patient as always, but eager nonetheless. Maybe his surprise arises from his assumption that it would never happen.

"Katniss." That is all he says, in a voice plagued with uncertainty, or reproving skepticism—I'm not quite sure. As if he suspects I may have ulterior motives.

I'm already beginning to feel the repercussions of rejection stirring in my chest, weighing me down. "Don't you want to?"

"Of _course_ I do," he replies with a slight laugh, musical as always. But his brow is still furrowed, eyes focused on my shoulder, probably too mortified to lock with mine. "I just… I mean, do you think you're ready?"

My teeth drag over my lip, my gaze flickering away just as his trains on my face. "Yes, I do," I reply meekly. Despite the hesitation in my voice, my assurance is genuine. It's nearly been a year since we came back together in Twelve, since he began to pick up all of my broken pieces, one by one. I love him, I truly, honestly _love_ him. I have never been so sure of anything. And I need him to know this, that he is my sun, my hope, my future, my everything, with no room for uncertainty. Words can be faked. Strung out. Over-exaggerated. But intimacy—at least, on that level—cannot be. Not from me, at least.

And besides, Peeta, in his tolerant, understanding forbearance, has waited too long for this. After all the boy has done to heal me, to keep me together even at his own expense, he deserves more. He always has.

Not to mention, the thought of being that much closer to Peeta—my blue-eyed, broad-shouldered, soft-skinned Peeta—ignites that fire in the pit of my stomach once over.

His palm cups my face, drawing my line of vision back to his, where he unwraps me with his tender cerulean orbs, dashed with tiny flecks of gold. I melt in his gaze, in his touch, as he smiles warily up at me. "I love you, Katniss. And I don't want you waking up in the morning and regretting anything."

"I will never regret you," I toss back almost indignantly. "Ever. Not anything about you."

His smile softens. "Alright."

He starts to shift from underneath me, but I halt his movements when rigid fingers clasp around his wrist. "Just… Peeta?"

"Yes?" His voice is as tender as always, patient, accepting.

A mangled sigh trickles from my throat. "Promise you'll be careful with me. I'm not… _good_ at this. I don't know what I'm doing, or what to expect, really—"

Peeta arrests my unnerved rambling with a kiss, delicate in nature, unwavering in intention, curving against my chapped lips.

"If it makes you feel any better, I have no idea what I'm doing, either," he replies with a trace of a blush flowering in his cheeks. "We'll figure this out together, alright? And if—if I start _hurting_ you… promise me you'll tell me. I'll stop."

_Oh Peeta, always concerned with keeping me comfortable._

"I will," I respond meekly once more, finding that the trembling of my hands has become almost noticeable. I attempt to swallow whatever inking of worry has rooted in my belly alongside that sweltering warmth, the heat that only arrives when my kisses with Peeta intensify, when his hands trace over my skin, when he whispers how much he loves me.

And so, like the gentleman that Peeta is seldom not, he helps lift me from the floor, fingers lacing with mine as he leads me up the stairs. It's hard to imagine that Peeta's never been intimate like this before, considering how ideal the boy—the _man_—is, with his valiant elegance and ceaseless patience. But I suppose when you pine after one girl, and one girl only, for over a decade, it sort of limits your options.

It seems impossibly advantageous and undeserved for that girl to be me.

When we've reached the second floor, I part from him for a moment, heading to the bathroom to "clean up." Or so I tell him. With a sweet smile, he requests that I take all the time I need, and I slip behind the door and slam it tight before he can witness my budding panic attack.

My spine aligns with the cool wood of the door as I employ every trick in the book to steady my breathing, to little avail. It hits me like a tidal wave that I have absolutely _no_ idea what to do. Sure, Peeta's in the same boat as I am in the sense that he's never been with anyone like this before, either. But Peeta… well, he's on a wholly different level than I. His problem-solving skills are far more developed than mine, not to mention that the boy has paramount self-control. I've got the self-control of a mother lion stalking a wounded gazelle.

What if I mess up? If I don't do something right? Peeta deserves nothing less than absolute perfection. What if I cannot provide that for him?

My ruthlessly crowded mind begins to fumble for distractions, and I find a momentary diversion in shaving. I run the bathwater and dip my legs into the tub, dragging the wetted razor over my skin, leaving velvety strips where the blade releases. I suppose Peeta might enjoy this—after all, I find no innate satisfaction in the exploit.

When my legs are left bare and smooth, I drain the water from the tub and lift myself to the mirror. Dark circles pool underneath my eyes, the braid that gathers down my shoulder disheveled and thick. With feeble fingers, I dig out the hairband and begin to comb through the pleats, just as Peeta likes.

And then, with shaking palms, I grasp at the bottom hem of my shirt, tugging it over my head. My pants fall to the floor next, then my underclothes. In the reflection, my wary eyes rake over the drained girl that stands before me, livened with fear but exhausted from overthinking. I study her scars, the patches of whitened flesh, scribbled sloppily all over her skin like a four-year-old's handiwork. The Capitol's magic had healed some of my marks, but too many were left, proving to be the last physical evidence of the war when all else has disappeared.

I can't imagine how Peeta could see me as beautiful. This girl on the opposite side of the glass is broken, is flawed, faulty. How could he possibly love someone so deficient?

But he _does_. I suppose that's all that truly matters. And instead of standing here, wading in my own pent-up fear, I should swallow my anxiety and join the boy that's promised to take all that away from me, multiple times over. Why should these circumstances harvest anything different?

With trembling fingers, I snatch the bathrobe that hangs to the side of the shower and fold myself in it, pulling open the bathroom door. I repeatedly remind myself that this is _Peeta_. If any person in this entire world has earned my trust, it's him, undoubtedly.

I slowly, carefully, nervously trek into the bedroom, immersed in thick silence. The window to the outside world is open, ribbons of moonlight streaming in, donating a silvery glow to the otherwise blackened room. It takes only a few moments to locate Peeta. He's outstretched on the bed, blankets wrapped around his torso; bare chest, hands propped behind his head, eyes locked on the ceiling in judicious contemplation. He doesn't acknowledge my presence until I've stridden to the side of the bed, pressing a hand on the mattress.

His head slides over to look at me, blue orbs melting my fears as his smile widens.

"There you are. I was beginning to think you drowned."

When I say nothing, he motions for me to sit beside him, but leaves a considerable space between us. I understand this action of his—he's waiting for _me_ to bridge the gap. For so long now, we've done everything on _my_ terms, and I suppose that won't change, even now. If it had been up to Peeta, we probably would've breached on this milestone months ago, but he's so selfless and sacrificial that he leaves our progress up to me.

I stay standing beside the bed, shaky fingers migrating down to the knot that holds my robe together. His eyes widen as I begin to work at the tie, pulling the tabs apart.

"Peeta, can you… can you look away?" I murmur through the darkness.

He blinks in shock and turns his head the other way, as if he should've already done so, the blush in his cheeks perceptible even through the black. "Of course. I'm so—"

"Don't apologize." My command is quick as the robe pools at my feet. "I should be comfortable enough with you for this, but… I don't know. I guess I'm just afraid that you'll see everything I've been trying to hide. Everything that I truly am."

"Katniss." His voice is urgent, reproaching. I slide onto the bed, wrapping a thin sheet around my torso, situating my back toward him as I stare at the wall. Behind me, he shifts, growing slightly closer and yet leaving a mile of mattress between us, still allowing me to call the shots. "I already _do_ see you as you truly are."

"Broken? Scarred?"

"Beautiful?" he murmurs back. "Magnetic? Strong? Courageous?"

"I am anything _but_ courageous," I respond thickly, a tinge of a humorless laugh coloring my reply.

Behind me, I hear a sigh stir in the quiet. "You're here, aren't you? That's half the battle right there."

I don't respond—at least, not immediately.

Instead, I remain positioned at the edge of the bed, everything under my waist folded in a sheet. The bitter cold from the room attacks my exposed skin, which tingles slightly, almost aches. My breathing is jagged as I sit here in the silence, rehearsing a thousand scenarios in my head on how this event should go about. As if I have the power to dictate every upcoming element.

Through my entire life, I've always _wanted_ power. Control. I need it to feel satisfied; otherwise, I'm left hopelessly vulnerable. And here, with Peeta, about to embark on something completely foreign and alarming, I am vulnerable in every sense of the word. Allowing myself to unfold before him, granting him the right to memorize me by the inch, learning my deepest secrets and my grandest fears… I am _not_ in control.

My muscles give in as I find myself trembling unrelentingly, bringing my palms up to cover my face. I feel so ashamed, so scared, like a little child in an alien universe. There have been many moments preceding this experience in which I've been swallowed by unmitigated apprehension: when Prim was reaped, when I thought Peeta was going to die in our first games, when Snow threatened to kill my family…

And this moment, here and now, is no less petrifying. Whatever is about to happen will consummate me and Peeta's relationship, sealing us together in a way that I could've never dreamed of as a child. It will require the deepest vulnerability of all, and even twice as much trust. I will become more fragile than the shell of an egg.

This _terrifies_ me.

Unhurriedly, Peeta shifts behind me as my trembling increases; he pulls his body close to mine, and I feel the delicate touch of his fingers against the skin of my back, sending a shock of warmth through my iced silhouette, frozen with fear.

His touch magically unwinds the tightest of knots in my shoulders as a sigh larger than life itself draws from my lips. I relax against his palm.

"I'm sorry, Peeta," I whisper.

Behind me, I hear his breath catch. "Why?"

_Poor boy. He probably thinks I'm about to tell him to put his pants back on._

Maybe I should. Half of me begs myself to get the hell out, to run away, as I judge that I am not ready for this yet. I'm not ready to unravel before another being, allowing them to take the reins. I need Peeta to know I love him, but there _has_ to be another way… right?

I turn my head just enough so that, through my peripheral vision, his anxious façade is readable.

"I'm afraid," I murmur, almost inaudibly, as my eyes meet his.

A gentle, melancholic smile arches at his lips as he lifts his hand further, toying with a few loose strands of my hair. "I'm scared, too."

At first, I think he's mocking me. I snort.

"Sure."

His brow furrows. "What? I'm not allowed to be afraid of any of this?"

It strikes me soon after that he's as serious as I. _Peeta is anxious, just like me._ Maybe I'm not alone.

But how? Peeta has been waiting for this day to arrive for ages now, patiently, of course, but that doesn't lessen the strain of anticipation. "You have nothing to be afraid of," I bite back, almost hostilely, through a voice trembling with confusion. How does the perfect, considerate Peeta have the right to feel the same emotion as I do? "You've been ready for this for far longer than I have, and you always seem to know what to do, and you're so gentle, and sweet…"

He leans in slowly, his lips curving against a scar that slices through the top of my shoulder. The touch sends shivers about my overwrought muscles, my eyes instinctively fluttering closed.

"Katniss," he begins in a voice so tender that it sends a wave of comfort washing over me. "I've been waiting for this moment for—for years, I think. But I'm still _terrified._"

My teeth clench. "How?"

Against my spine, I feel his fingertips shadowing over the contours. I watch his eyes lower downward almost self-consciously, as if he has something to be ashamed of.

"Because I don't want to hurt you."

_Of course._ Peeta has never been concerned with his own well-being, only the consolation of others—it tears him apart to see any pain he's caused on the contorted lips of others. After his hallucinations, if his grip is a little too tight, or his nails a little too sharp, I am forced to watch as it rips Peeta to shreds. To see that he's done damage, even if it was unintentionally. I see it in the way his eyes lose all of their hope.

He doesn't want that to happen now. It would _shatter_ him if he hurt me tonight, especially since his efforts are in good faith.

"I've never done this before," he continues as I watch him carefully, rotating my body so that I'm closer to facing him. "I have no idea what I'm doing, but I want it to be perfect for you, I want _everything_ to be perfect for you…"

I crave for him to understand that it _will_ be. Everything he does is flawless; I have no doubt that this will prove no different.

I take his face in my palms, eyes locking with his, promising him wordlessly that he has no basis for his fear. And then I surprise myself—and him, too, I suppose—by lifting his face up to mine, lips meeting gently, softly, yet urgently. I want him to know that he shouldn't be afraid. His sigh pours into my mouth as the tension rolls with it, too, releasing around us in tangible solace. My fingers move with a mind of their own, tangling in his blonde curls, pulling myself closer to him. The heat between us is surreal, hollowing my breaths, bringing me to life.

I feel his hands slip from my back down to my hips, pushing down the rim of the sheet, a shock of cool air wrapping around the newly exposed skin. I gasp against him and our lips disconnect as this simmering warmth twists inside of me, but not unpleasantly. My forehead finds his as this desire clings to my skin, leeching off of my fear. Although the anxiety is still present, it is bleeding out now, taken over by something much more ardent.

"I need you," I whimper into the quiet, and reflexively, his hands tighten on my waist, embedding into the skin, sending a shock to my core as he pulls me back to him. His lips are eager, and… impatient, almost. Tender, as always, but much more urgent. I can't blame him, though—he may be chivalrous and considerate, but he's still a man.

And, after all, beyond that… my own sense of urgency festers in my bones. I hold him back from me, gazes locking, my longing for him unfeigned and unstoppable.

"Make love to me," I plead again, for the second time tonight. "Please."

I watch as his eyes unfold, a mixture between fear, excitement, and relentless ardor swimming in his glimmering pools of blue.

He does not respond with words—instead, he drags me up to him, his hands tugging at the sheets that pleat around me. They work all over my silhouette, memorizing my skin, electrifying my entire body. I feel like I'm wrapped in flames.

Here, Peeta has once again transformed me back into the Girl on Fire.

Although now, I suppose, I don't mind.

Tonight, Peeta unfolds me, detangling all my reserves and opening me up into an entire new universe, full of potential and excitement. We go slow at first, but that's what I need, and I imagine he's no different. He's dragged the sheets up over our torsos, screening us from the surrounding world—I have no doubt that this gesture is purely for my comfort. Even though we're safe, sheltered in the confines of his bedroom, _our_ bedroom, the protective shield he's put around us allows me to finally give into this impending sensation of vulnerability. But that weakness comes paired with a new type of sensation that supersedes all, taking me by storm.

Before it begins, he promises to take care of me, which is an oath that he does not break, and never will. The initial moments are amusingly awkward, as neither of us truly understand what we're doing. It's like that first bath we took together, brimming with graceless shifting, attempting to understand where to place ourselves. He asks me in these moments, and in later ones, too, over and over again, if it hurts or if I want him to stop. But I find myself resistant. I _need_ him, more than ever, in every sense of the word, need, crave, _demand_…

And Peeta does not disappoint. Even through his urgency, he is gentle, considerate, always alert. He _does_ take care of me. His arms never leave me, his lips tender against mine, my neck, my collar, possessively leaving another string of love bites along my throat.

Every movement of his is charmingly poetic, artful, magical. He brings me to an entire new world, one where I do not _have_ to feel weak, or exposed, or afraid. With the sounds of my name on his tongue, he pushes me over the edge, and I realize that this is not a moment in which I need control. I just need him, and the promises that he donates with every soft moan, his melodies threaded with soothing _I love you_'s.

I have never felt a bliss so potent, so real, so invigorating.

And when it's over, when we succumb to jagged gasps, Peeta rests his sweat-coated crown against my chest, breath washing over my collar. He is listening to my heartbeat, I can see, as my fingers run through his dampened curls. I feel overwhelmingly exhausted, but relaxed, as if a sleeping monster has been caged inside of me for years and has finally been released.

After quite some time of beautifully peaceful silence, I feel his breath stir against my chest. "How was that?" he chuckles lightly.

A giggle unleashes from somewhere in my throat, breathy but genuine, ringing in the sweat-entrenched air, shadowy scents of sweet and salty meshing together in an intriguing concoction. What was recently a bitterly-cool room has been livened, warmed, broken in.

I cradle him in my arms, returning the favor from him taking care of me so intently. I do not need to respond to his question for him to understand; after all, we've come so far, grown so close, to be able to sense what the other is thinking without speaking.

There is something so beautifully relaxing in that notion. What was once assumed to be vulnerability has unmasked itself, showing me its true nature. With Peeta, I am not weak. Instead, I am _understood_. I am taken as I truly am, with every imperfection, with every deficiency… and I am loved regardless.

By opening up to Peeta, I could've so easily lost control, so easily been taken advantage of, shattered even further. I was lying out in the open. Exposed fully. And Peeta utilized that opportunity to memorize me, not break me down, not take control. He explored me like a new world, foreign and mysterious. No exploitation necessary. Just affection, comfort, guardianship.

We lie together for some time, listening to the sounds of steadying heartbeats, satisfied breaths through gentle smiles. I absentmindedly trail my fingers over his broad shoulders, sticky with sweat, unsure of how I went so long without this feeling of skin against skin. His warmth engulfs me, his love bracing me.

And my love braces him in return.

In this night, humid with perspiration and pacified breaths, I have never been so sure of anything. I adore Peeta with every bone in my body. He is my one and only, my moon, my stars, my sun.

And so, when my mind is beginning to grow hazy with exhaustion, and I feel myself drifting away to the sound of my soul mate's heart beating, beating for me, for us, I'm grateful that he asks the question before we drift off.

"You love me. Real or not real?"

He tilts his chin just enough so that his blue irises can lock with mine, a degree of ardor encased within them that I don't think I've ever seen before.

I want to tell him that I love him with every breath, with every smile. That I love him now more than ever, and in the morning, it will have only grown, developed, blossomed.

But he should know this already. I assured him of that tonight with every movement, every eager gasp, every tender kiss. That I love him with the heat of a thousand suns and with the power of a million hurricanes. And so, when I respond by sealing up all of those wordless promises with a single syllable, I find no need to make it elaborate—it is simple, it is certain, it is whole.

Just as I am when I'm with him. _Simple, certain._

_Whole._

I tell him, "Real."

* * *

_Hope it lived up to your expectations, and I apologize if it didn't. Leave some feedback if you can! Want to see more (or less)?_

_Oh, and don't forget to check out this chapter's sister one-shot if you can stomach a little more detail! It's on my profile—it's the only other fanfic I've written, so it shouldn't be too hard to find! ;)_

_I hope that you guys enjoyed! Thank you for all of your patience leading up until this point. Don't forget, there's lots left to come—is that a marriage I see on the horizon? Yes? Maybe? Collins never specifically wrote that they got officially married (at least I don't think she did?) so I guess it's up to you guys whether or not you want to see that before they have those two kiddos! (But babies are for much later chapters, of course.) What do you think?_

_Have a wonderful weekend, lovelies!_


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